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4 







LEISURE HOUR SERIES.— No. 137 


y 

YESTERDAY 


AN AMERICAN NOVEL 



HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

1882 




Copj'right, 1882, 

BY 

HENRY HOLT & CO. 


Sf. Johnland 
Stereotype P'oundry, 
Suffolk Co.. N. V. 


YESTERDAY. 



CHAPTER 1. 

TT TELL, Mont, where's the next house on your list?” 

V V “There you are, that white gate to the left.” 

“That? Here, you,” to the driver of the long, open 
wagon, “stop a bit, will you, and let's look about us.” 

The wagon therefore drew up at the gate. The first 
speaker — a showy man with coarse, dark hair, and thick, 
brushy mustache, a loud voice and a louder laugh — gave 
a long stare up the straight drive, between the old wil- 
lows just breaking into leaf under the April sun. At the 
end was a large old-fashioned white house with high 
steps. Having considered it a moment, he again ad- 
dressed the man behind him — 

“ Room enough; but not too shady. No chills?” 

“Not a shiver. I'm too careful of myself fer that, 
Goring, I promise you.” 

“Mont,” or Mr. Monteith Tyne — to give luna his full 
name — was a contrast to his companion,, being;, if alsa 


2 


YESTERDA Y. 


tall and large, rather thin and plain; ugly, one must 
have said, but for an air of distinction that made him 
almost handsome again. He had a worn look when he 
was not speaking, which gave him the appearance of being 
the oldest of the party. Beside him sat the youngest, 
whose amiable, but not over-wise and still boyish face 
ended in a chin so narrow, that he had taken the pre- 
caution of filling it out betimes, with a pair of blonde 
whiskers. This individual now put in his word. 

“I want a few trees; haven’t I my hammock to swing.?” 

“You lazy chap ! ” Goring retorted, laughing. ‘ ‘ Y ou’ve 
nothing to think of but to measure your length when you 
choose summer quarters, Charley Corbin.” 

“Well, shall we drive in } ” asked Tyne. 

“No; don’t do that,” said Goring. “We needn’t all 
look at every house; and I want to smoke. I’ll stop here, 
and the rest of you fellows can interview the old man, or 
old woman, or old monkey, or old donkey, or whatever 
it may be.” 

“Have it your own way,” said Tyne, “but be civil; 
the old lady’s ray aunt, Mrs. Bishop. ” 

“Hallo! Then it’s a family job.? Still, as you say, 
you know when you’re well off. I’d trust you to make 
yourself a soft nest any day.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, Lord 1 ” exclaimed a fourth person, sitting be- 
hind Corbin — a very handsome, but very hard-looking, 


YESTERDA Y. 


3 


red-haired man this, who was leaning back rather grace- 
fully, and twisting a soft mustache. ‘^Do you suppose 
Mrs. Bishop would ever let a house to any of us? She 
has a soul above greenbacks, and we are such wild young 
fellows.” 

You go and talk to her, and she’ll soon come round,” 
said Goring. “You’ve got a tongue, you I ” 

“I, my diplomatic friend! My strong point in this 
neighborhood is discreet silence. The old lady has her 
prejudices; she thinks I get tight and smash furniture; I 
should only rub her fur the wrong way. Mont, you 
dutiful nephew, it’s your turn.” 

“Very well. Hawk; I’m off.” 

“ But won’t you get a thundering lecture I ” 

“What for?” 

“Your hat. It looks as if you’d been on a ‘bust’ 
already. ” 

“That’s Goring’s fault for making us try the short cut 
by Rossiter’s farm. If I had known that Rossiter hadn’t 
trimmed his cherry-trees in the century, I would have ve- 
toed that. And, Lord love you. Goring, don’t light up 
while I’m here; I shall catch it worse if I go scented.” 

“Anything for a quiet life,” growled Goring, and 
threw his match into the road. 

“ But where’ll we keep our boats? ” Corbin suggested. 
“This house is on the wrong side.” 


4 


YESTERDA Y. 


‘‘ Mrs. Bishop owns the water front and the boathouse 
on the field next Start’s Hotel,” answered Tyne; “and if 
she hasn’t leased it to him, as she talked of doing, it goes 
with the house.” 

“Well,” said Goring, “ go and see anyway, Mont, will 
you ? The other places we’ve been to are beastly holes; 
and your relations must keep a house fit to live in. We’ll 
depend on you, for if she’s particular, such a rattling gang 
had better not show all at once. If you’re nervous, though, 
take Sundon along; he’d do more good than harm. ” 

Goring leaned over as he spoke, toward the last of the 
party, who sat beside Hawk, — a place many a man would 
not have cared to choose, on account of the comparisons 
sure to be drawn on the score of personal appearance. 
Such a neighborhood brought out the special defects of 
the person present, — a forehead a little retreating when 
seen in profile, a too short neck, a heavy though not 
awkward figure. His hair was light brown, — a more 
fashionable shade than Hawk’s — but it was very straight, 
having none of those natural waves which the prettiest 
girls of the season envied. On the other hand, his eyes, 
gray, like his companion’s, were several shades darker, with 
sensitive pupils narrowing in light, or widening in shadow, 
— a detail unexpected, and to a careless observer’s fancy 
out of keeping, in an organization so full of physical vigor; 
but one which in itself gives an air of mobility and ex- 


YESTERDA Y. 


5 


pressiveness to any countenance. The effect of it was 
borne out by the well-cut curves of his lips, not entirely 
hidden by his light mustache. The combined sugges- 
tions of his face made up a rather puzzling whole. A 
suspicious critic might have come to the conclusion 
that he had finer instincts than had been done justice 
to by the average course of his life. • 

He had been listening to the conversation with a smile, 
but taking no part in it. At Goring's address he put 
on a deprecating air, and answered in a tone of evidently 
affected softness — 

What ! I to go first, when there’s a lady in the case 1 
My dear fellow, you are too complimentary by half and 
three-quarters. After you. ” 

Goring roared. ‘‘What first-rate taffy, Harry! Try 
that style on the old lady, and she’ll let us off half the 
rent, if Mont doesn’t look out sharper for her interest 
than ours.” 

“Oh, I’m nowhere as a fascinator when you’re about” 
More laughter. “But seriously now, shan’t I make mis- 
chief, Mont? Haven’t I heard you say the old lady had 
a horror of the profession ? ” 

‘ ‘ So great, that she don’t even let herself know who be- 
longs to it You’re safe there, I believe.” 

“I say,” broke in Goring, “we’re losing time. Harry, 
haven’t you to be back early ? ” 


6 


YESTERDA Y. 


‘‘True enough.” 

“So have I. Look here then; you see the house while 
Mont takes us on to the next one. Where is it, Mont? ” 

“ Firebrace's, on the water-side — not a hundred steps 
farther.” 

“ Man or woman ? ” 

“An old ’longshore . fisherman-farmer, half eel and half 
pine-knot; he’s put himself on the outside of enough 
whisky and Jersey lightning, for the last half-century, to 
kill any one else; but it’s only spoiled his temper and 
preserved him in alcohol, like a snake in a museum. 
Yes, that’s not a bad plan. You. go first, Harry, then 
I’ll come back for you. My aunt mustn’t think me rude; 
and Firebrace must be handled by some one that under- 
stands him. ” 

“Oh, leave him to me while you make your call, if 
you want,” proposed Hawk. 

“No, I’d better begin him; you’re too deep — ^you’d 
frighten him with your finessing; and we want him at 
his best, for if Mrs. Bishop has given up her water front, 
his house may suit us more than hers. So that settles it. ” 

‘ ‘ All right ” 

“Just give me a hint how to start, commander, since 
you’re at home here,” said Sundon, ---speaking now in 
a brisk everyday tone; but with a voice plainly more 
musical and of greater compass than the other men’s. 


YESTERDA Y. 


7 


‘‘Go to the front steps,” Tyne answered, “then turn 
to the right; you’ll see the outside of the house in that 
way, and then the gravel walk takes you to the little 
house which was the gardener’s, and that my aunt moved 
into when she decided to let the other. You’ll find some 
one there to show you about You needn’t ask many 
questions; I know already the house is in repair, and 
the rent’s not too high; just see if you like it Men- 
tion my name, of course. As for yourself, put on your 
gravest face, look quiet, and a little sentimental if you 
feel inclined; the style of the ‘Poor Young Man,’ in fact 
Anything short of passing yourself off for a clergyman, in 
which you might possibly be found out” 

“Do I look like it.? Do I speak like it.? Good 
Lord, how badly those clerical fellows do speak ! T’other 
day I went to hear their great gun at St. Leo’s — ” 

“ Oh ! oh ! oh-h ! ” from the rest of the party. 

“Yes, yes, yes. Just in the way of business, you must 
know. The papers were all praising his ‘ delivery, ’ and 
his ‘ elocution, ’ and his ‘ power over the emotions of his 
audience,’ till I thought I must see if he knew anything 
I didn’t” 

“You’re always studying up,” said Goring. “Should 
think it would be an infernal nuisance.” 

“No more than to you to turn over your investments. 
But this time I was swindled. Gabble, gabble, from one 


8 


YESTERDAY. 


end of that everlasting service to the other. The sexton put 
me in a pew with an old maid and a school-girl from the 
backwoods. At first they were mightily impressed; but 
about the middle of it the little thing whispers, ‘Don't 
he read too fast ? ’ and the dragon answers, ‘ These ser- 
vices are so long, he must, to get through in time.’ I 
hadn’t quite the courage to ask, ‘ You mean in time for 
dinner .? ’ Well, any more orders ? ” dismounting with the 
last words. 

“No skylarking with the waiter-girl,” put in Goring. 

‘ ‘ After you, again ! ” 

“ Your hat a little straighter,” said Tyne. “All right 
now. Forward march 1 ” 

Sundon lifted his hand in a military salute, and walked 
off with an air of responsibility, in spite of a lurking 
twinkle in his eyes. 

He did not carry out Tyne’s directions to the letter, 
after all; for when he reached the foot of the steps, he 
saw the door at the top beginning to open, and a glimpse 
of black dress and white cap. “The old lady must be 
there,” he thought, and mounted up to see; but when he 
reached the top, he found himself unexpectedly confronted 
by a woman nobody could have called old. Her brown 
deep-set eyes looked a little hollow and weary, and her 
cheeks were pale, as if she was recovering from an ill- 
ness or a shock; but her lips were red and fresh, and the 


YESTERDAY. 


9 


short oval of her face was completed by a smooth, broad 
forehead, from which her soft brown hair, growing rather 
low, was put back, in the fashion of the day. She wore 
the simplest of long black cashmere dresses, and a little 
w^hite muslin cap. “Not the old lady, and certainly not 
a servant,’" Sundon thought; “a widow, or a girl.? I 
can’t tell. Some near relation, at any rate. Mont should 
have told me — ” with a glance back at the wagon, which, 
how^ever, by this time had gone on. He bowed, and in- 
quired for Mrs. Bishop. 

“She is not at home,” was the answer. (“ Pretty little 
soft voice,” he commented to himself, “but wants color 
as much as her cheeks. Why hasn’t Mont tried to warm 
her ? ”) “I will take any message for her.” 

‘ ‘ I would like to see the house, if I may. I came from 
New York this morning on purpose to look at houses.” 

“I will show it to you. Of course, in Mrs. Bishop’s 
absence I cannot do more. But no one has even the re- 
fusal of it yet, as far as I know; so it would be worth 
your while.” 

They went together through the rooms, large, scantily 
furnished in a style long out of date, with everything re- 
moved that gave an air of modern daily occupation, but 
much remaining to suggest old days of formal prosperity. 
It was a house that would be cool and airy in summer, 
and the large garden at the back had many shady nooks, 


lO YESTERDAY, 

besides promise of vegetables and fruit in the sunny 
spaces. Unfortunately the young lady had to inform 
Sundon, that Mrs. Bishop had let the field on the shore 
and all its belongings to Start. ‘^None of the houses 
on the beach are to let 'either, ” she added, except Mr. 
Firebrace s, which is rather cramped, if you have a large 
family. ” 

‘‘There are five of us, not counting seiwants.” 

“Are any of them children? Mrs. Bishop wished me 
particularly to ask.” 

% 

“Why, no,” said Sundon, laughing, “we are five 
full-grown bachelors, though we still keep up our boy- 
ish passion for dabbling in salt water. One of us you 
must know already, — my friend, Monteith Tyne.” Why 
had he not named him before ? He could not tell; some 
vague fancy of observing the ground for himself had led 
him on. 

“Yes,” she said, “he is my cousin. He could not 
come himself to-day, then ? ” 

This remark, made with decided animation, was the first 
she had volunteered not strictly in the line of business. 

“He has gone with the rest to have a look at Fire- 
brace’s, but will be here directly. It’s plain he did not 
hope to find you, or I should not have been allowed to 
come alone. ” 

“ I hope he will not be long, for 1 must go very soon 


YESTERDAY. 


II 


to the train for Mrs. Bishop; though I am not sure she 
will return now.” 

(“She wants to see him,” thought Sundon. “Query, 
how much ? ”) 

“If you think it worth while, you might wait and see 
her yourself; still I am not quite certain. But I must 
excuse myself, to get ready; you have seen everything — 
Why, this has been left; I must take it over.” 

They were again at the house door, and she had caught 
sight of a basket packed full of books, standing in the 
hall. She began to lift it. 

“Don’t,” said he, “it is too heavy for you. Let me 
carry it.” 

“Oh no, thank you.” 

“At least let me help you with it.” 

It ended in their taking it between them to the “other 
house,” a little old low wooden structure, close on the road 
but for a low ragged hedge. The lady looked about her 
a minute, as they set the basket down on the veranda, 
then said, “Many thanks; now don’t let me detain 
you.” 

“You are not off yet yourself? ” 

“lam waiting for my horse and wagon.” 

“If I might wait with you till Mont comes — and here 
he is.” 

Tyne was just entering by the gate in the hedge. He 


12 


Y ESTER DA F. 


walked quickly up, with a start and an air of surprise; the 
lady met him cordially. 

‘‘Why, Grace !” he said. (“The name suits her ex- 
actly,” thought Sundon). “I was sure you were in 
Philadelphia ! ” 

“No; Cousin Sarah wrote at the last moment that the 
children were sick, and I had better not come.” 

‘ ‘ Of course; you are not up to playing the nurse yet 
Where’s aunt ? ” 

“She stayed last night in town. I am just going to 
the train for her. ” 

“You don’t mean to say she left you all alone 
here .? ” 

“Oh, that’s nothing. And I have been showing the 
house to your friend.” 

“Miss Delahay— allow me — Mr. Sundon.” (“Not a 
wdow then,” Sundon said to himself.) “You have 
heard me speak of him; in fact, though you have not 
met him, you have seen him before; and I know you 
have not my aunt’s prejudices.” 

“When, Mont? Oh, I know; when you made up 
that theater-party last year in Christmas-week. I have 
a great deal of pleasure to thank you for, Mr. Sundon.” 
Her tone and smile were enthusiastic, in spite of the for- 
mality of her words. 

“ Ah ! ” said he, “I thought one evening in Christmas- 


YES TER DA Y. 


13 


week that I had a particularly sympathetic audience; that 
must have been the time. ” 

. “Shall I tell you what we said afterwards, into the bar- 
gain ? ” asked Tyne, with a mischievous look. 

“Oh, that is all nonsense,” said Grace; “it is not even 
new. Mr. Sundon must have heard too many such fool- 
ish things already.” 

“Were they so very uncomplimentary, as a set-off to 
the pleasure ? ” Sundon asked. 

“You might not think them flattering,” Grace re- 
turned, a little embarrassed. 

“Let us give him the chance to judge for himself,” said 
Tyne. “ My cousin, in spite of her enjoyment of acting 
as an artistic matter, declared that she not only did not 
care for the personality of the actors, but hardly under- 
stood that they were real people at all. If I had told her 
they were optical illusions, clever reflections in magic mir- 
rors, helped out by ventriloquist tricks, she would have 
believed me, she maintained. Now, Grace, you can see 
for yourself that you haven’t owed your entertainment 
merely to a shadow.” 

Grace was sitting in a straw chair with broad arms, and 
was letting one hand rest on one of them, — a thin hand 
now, but evidently pretty not long since. Sundon put 
out his own, and laid it lightly on hers a moment, disre- 
garding Tyne’s warning glance. 


4 


YESTERDA Y. 


“Is that real, do you think, Miss Delahay?” he said. 

She had been smiling; she still smiled as she looked 
down at his handsome well-shaped hand, large and strong, 
but whiter and showing less signs of work than most 
men’s. His fancy, however, saw something in her eyes 
that made him say, “It will be brown enough by and 
by, I promise you; I mean to go in for rowing and sail- 
ing this vacation. ” With that he lifted it off, wondering 
why hers should tremble so. How delicate she seemed ! 
It made her for the moment less pleasing to him. 

“I assure you, I think you a man,” she said. “You 
will allow for my never having met an actor off the stage 
before .? ” 

“If our acquaintance is to last, as I hope it is, I prom- 
ise not to play any part with you but my own,” he said. 

Grace raised her head a little higher, with a look 
that went through him like a lightning -flash, and 
was gone as quickly. Sundon almost thought himself 
mistaken. Could a young girl, brought up as Tyne’s 
cousin probably would have been, give such glances? 
It reminded him of nothing less than an experience of 
the year before with Tyne himself. They had a mutual 
acquaintance of whom the world said, “His rooms are 
no better than a private gambling-house; ” and once the 
two happened to be playing cards together there, and for 
high stakes. Tyne had not quite broken with old habits 


YESTERDAY. 


15 


on that point then. They both were clever at the game 
they had chosen, but Sundon rather the best Tyne cared 
nothing how it ended, but he knew Sundon to be pushed 
for money. The luck shifted from one to the other, till 
at length it took a sudden turn in Sundon’s favor; and 
then it was he had felt that look of Tyne's, so quick no 
one else saw it, so sharp it was not to be misunderstood. 

‘ ‘ He thinks- I'm cheating ! " Sundon said to himself. 
‘ ‘ He shall see. " He played on, and chance and skill 
combined for him to win. When it was over, Tyne only 
said indifferently, “I'm going now; suppose you come 
along;” and talked of other things till they reached his 
rooms, when he asked Sundon in, and saying, “We'd 
better settle, now I have the money,” wrote a check and 
handed it to him. Sundon looked at it and tore it up. 

“ What's that for.? ” asked Tyne. “That's my writing, 
and represents so much of my balance; it's neither forged 
nor overdrawn.” 

“You think I've cheated you,” said Sundon. 

“Stuff ! If I did, I'd have made a row when I had the 
other fellows to bear me out” 

“You weren't sure enough for that, but you thought 
so all the same. I won't stand it How could you, 
after all we've been through together ? To be sure, you 
haven't tried me just this way before.” 

“But what should make you think so.?” 


i6 


YESTERDA Y, 


“I saw it in your eyes.” 

“What, while your heart was in your play?” 

“Isn’t it part of my regular business to see two, three, 
a dozen things at once? It came and went in your eyes, 
out it isn’t out of your mind yet. I won’t take your 
money till it is.” 

“I know you want it; Brown said so.” 

“That’s nothing to you; I didn’t tell you.” 

“You know I’m always willing to lend, and when 
you’ve fairly won, do you think I won’t pay up ? There 
now, ” writing a second check, ‘ ‘ unless you want to quar- 
rel with me, take it now.” 

Sundon took it, and from that time they were closer 
friends than ever. 

Whether there would be any corresponding conclusion 
with Grace Delahay, it was too soon to divine. Just now 
she had carelessly answered, “ Oh, no doubt”; and Tyne 
had changed the subject entirely, saying, 

‘ ‘ Harry, I’m afraid you’ll think I’ve sent you here, in 
the matter of the houses, on a fool’s errand. Our fellows 
have fallen in love with Firebrace’s establishment, most of 
all with his dock, and won’t hear of anything else. We 
shall be consulted as a matter of form; but since it’s really 
good enough, we may as well give in.” 

“We shall still be neighbors this summer, Miss Dela- 
hay, I hope,” said Sundon, “since I understand you re- 


YESTE/WA Y. 


17 


main here; and as I have been fortunate enough to meet 
you, I may hope to see you again ? 

“Probably. At all events I must take leave of you 
now. ” 

An awkward, overgrown boy had brought round a shab- 
by pony-phaeton, drawn by a bony and unpromising- 
looking horse. Grace slipped into the house for a mo- 
ment, and returned with a little black shawl wrapped 
about her, and her cap exchanged for a close-fitting bonnet. 

•- “Still the same old rattle-trap,” said Tyne. “I won- 
der it holds together, but that beast will never break it 
up. Aunt ought to 'give you something better to drive, 
once she gets a tenant. Remember me to her; ask her to 
make up her mind to seeing me about here through the 
summer. But are your plans settled yet } ” 

“No,” Grace answered, “I am hardly strong enough, 
and there are not so many chances.” 

“ I must see what I can do. Are you off.? ” Sundon 
had helped her into the phaeton. “Good-bye; Til be 
down again soon, to-morrow if possible.” 

“Look here, Mont,” said Sundon, as soon as Grace 
was out of sight, while they still stood at the gate; “does 
our not taking your aunt’s house make any difference to 
that young lady .? ” 

“Not the least. I wish it did; but she depends on 
nobody but herself.” 


f 


1 8 YESTERDAY. 

“You never told me anything about her, do you 
know ? ” 

‘ ‘ I don’t want to get into the way of boring you with 
my relations.” 

“No danger. As far as I hear from you, you have 
none. So then, what is Miss Delahay to you.? ‘Cousin’ 
don’t explain everything; and I rather like family histories 
when they’re not long-wiyded.” 

“Well, there were once three sisters; the stiff one, 
my aunt Mrs. Bishop; the beauty, my mother, — though 
I don’t prove it, — and the clever one, with the heart of 
gold into the bargain, Grace’s mother, Mr. William De- 
lahay s wife.” 

“William Delahay the banker, that Goring was talk- 
ing about the other evening?” 

‘ ‘ What did he say ? ” 

“‘That old fellow that broke all to pieces because 
he was so devilish soft-hearted.’” 

“The same. A case of bad debts, with the panic 
of ’57 to help it on. Goring will never be so easy a 
creditor, — no, nor half so good a fellow either as my 
uncle by marriage, who was a much kinder friend to 
me than the scamp of the family deserved.” 

“He’s dead now?” 

“Yes, he overworked to set his affairs straight again, 
and died suddenly in the beginning of the war; the ex- 


YESTERDAY, 


19 


citement of those days was the finishing touch. My aunt 
moved to Yonkers, and kept a little school, Grace help- 
ing her in it.” 

“I remember now, IVe heard you speak of them, 
and known of your doing things for them; but I was 
stupid enough to fancy them very different sort of 
people. ” 

‘•'And I stupid enough not to let you see what they 
really were. For my aunt it’s too late; she died of ty- 
phoid fever last February. Grace nursed her, was ill 
herself, and is slowly recovering — the slower the better.” 

“Why?” 

“Because, as soon as she is well enough, she leaves 
Mrs. Bishop, and goes out as a governess, wherever she 
can find a place; a hard thing for a young girl, reserved 
and sensitive, a little proud, fond of society, and fitted 
for it If she shouldn’t be well treated, I couldn’t 
stand it” 

‘ ‘ Mightn’t she marry ? There’s something rather tak- 
ing about her. ” 

“I wish she might; but she’s poor, in mourning, and 
under Mrs. Bishop’s wing, where she sees nobody. And 
girls haven’t so many chances at the best since the war, 
now there are so many more women than men. If 
she’d take it. I’d give her half my money to start with; 
but she never would.” 


20 


Yli.S i'ERDA Y. 


“Why not marry her yourself?” 

“For several good reasons; we are first cousins, and 
I don’t believe in such matches; Fve seen too much of 
them abroad. Then I know she wouldn’t have me, and 
so I am not in love with her.” 

“You seem to like each other very well.” 

“Just in the wrong way for an engagement. She has 
been the good little sister, — not consciously, though; 
she’s not a prig, only rather grave in consequence of 
a life of care, — and I the naughty big brother, for so 
long, that we can’t regard each other in a different light. 
That’s settled. She’s very affectionate, and if there were 
a man who took her fancy, he would have more love 
from her than most women can give; but since I am 
not able myself to love her, I shall never win it.” 

“By the way, it must have been she that Hawk was 
setting down for a starched schoolmistress the other day; 
how comes he not to know better?” 

“I’ll tell you. He has met her twice only, at the 
Mackenzies; and each time his conversation was based 
on his pet theory, that a woman likes fast talk, and 
makes only mock protests. She took it with indignant 
coldness; let him alone so severely, that he retired, more 
hurt at not being appreciated than he wants to allow.” 

“Very good! Dan’s a little to® much even for me 
sometimes; he’s amusing, but he’s a cold-blooded devil. 


YESTERDAY. 


21 


and always makes his fun out of the unpleasant side of 
things. Was the introduction of your giving?” 

“No, indeed.” 

“Nor mine to her exactly.” 

“I didn’t say that. I trust you.” 

“I hope at least I’m not so green as not to know the 
difference between your people and some others.” 

“That’s where Hawk’s smartness fails him; he rates 
the whole world too low to begin with.” 

“Let me see; — how old did you say Miss Delahay 
was ? ” 

“Oh, you needn’t be sly with me; twenty-one, just. 
I know the family dates.” 

“That’s not too young for you.” 

“Pshaw! how old am I, do yon suppose?” 

‘ ‘ I’m thirty-two myself; you may be a year over that. ” 

“Five more.” 

“Bosh! as long as you’re this side of forty, she 
couldn’t — 

“Once for all, that never will be. It’s enough that 
she’s willing not to be conscious of my history.” 

“Oh, if ^ you come to that, where’s she to find a man? 
Isn’t it time she understood the world a little better?” 

“Do you mean to take that mission upon yourself?” 

“No; it’s your place, not mine.” 

“Right enough. But as to my affairs, I hope, on 


22 


YESTERDAY. 


Grace’s account, you don’t know exactly what you’re 
talking about.” 

“You never told me much of anything. Hawk does 
say you were ill-used, and — ” 

“Much good^ his sympathy may do me. Td rather 
have his bad word than — But here he comes.” 

“We don’t discuss your family or your concerns be- 
fore him } ” 

Tyne nodded. Meanwhile Hawk, seeing them stand- 
ing at Mrs. Bishop’s gate, strolled up to join them, and 
ail three went on together. 

“Sorry you’ve had your trouble for nothing, Sundon,” 
said Hawk; “but unless you’ve some wonderful discov- 
eries to convert them with, our crowd means to stay at 
Firebrace’s ; Goring and Corbin swear they will anyhow, 
and why should one make a time when one don’t care 
much anyway? so I vote with them. Mont, didn’t I 
see your schoolmistress cousin driving a shocking old 
horse up the side road just now? I've met her at the 
Mackenzie’s; odd they should ask her there ! ” 

“Why?” inquired Sundon. Tyne took no notice. 

“Come now, perhaps she isn’t always so stiff? How 
have you amused yourself with her and the old lady?” 

“With neither; the visit was only a matter of business. 
Is this Firebrace’s? It don’t seem so neat as the other, 
but it may suit us better for a vacation.” 


YESTERDAY. 


23 


*‘0h, Mont’s promised everything done up fresh for 
us by the time we’re ready.” 

Firebrace’s was a shore farm-house on a low bank 
just above the beach; a field of potatoes separated it 
from Mrs. Bishop’s water front, and a neglected garden 
from the road. Large cherry-trees, planted along the 
straight walk that led up to the house, and others by 
the fences, shaded the garden and screened it from the 
street. Sundon noticed that when one stood at the gate, 
whatever passed in or out at Mrs. Bishop’s could be 
plainly seen. 

Goring had gone off to the hotel, to arrange with Start 
about boarding his horses; for neither Firebrace nor Mrs. 
Bishop had anything to offer suitable for them. Corbin, 
having picked out his two trees, and been all over the 
house twice, had returned to the garden, and was star- 
ing about at nothing in particular. 

‘‘Speculating on the chances of the fruit crop, and 
the absence of furniture, ” he remarked. ‘ ‘ I hope there’ll 
be a fall in camp-stools.” 

The house, though as clean as fresh paint and white- 
wash could make it, proved rather empty; but Tyne de- 
clared that he would undertake to supply ever}^thing. 

“We shan’t want much indoors in fine weather,” said 
Corbin; “but what’ll we do when it rains, Mr. Presi- 
dent and Housekeeper.?” 


24 


YESTERDA V. 


“Plenty. Til lay in a mountain of paper novels 
and a gross of packs of cards; Start’s isn’t too far be- 
tween showers, and there’s a very tolerable billiard-table 
there. ” 

‘ ‘ And a chance of seeing new faces, when we’re bored 
to death with each other’s,” put in Hawk. 

“Well, have you anything else to show one.?” asked 
Sundon. 

“Only the view,” said Tyne, “and that’s rather the 
best thing after all. Come along through here.” 

The veranda towards the water was quite narrow, but 
was supplemented by a strip of garden a few paces broad 
on the edge of the bank, overrun with young silver pop- 
lars, irregular shoots and suckers from a former main tree 
of which only a stump was left; they would break the 
force of the afternoon sun, yet would not be thick enough 
even in full leaf to close the outlook on the bright dancing 
ripples which came to shore in a gentle surf. A light 
wooden pier ran across the beach and far out enough for 
a large sail-boat to be anchored at its end, on which stood 
a roomy boat-house. This last shut out part of the dis- 
tance; but by going through it and out upon the rollers 
or the float, an unobstructed view was gained. You 
found yourself to be deep in the crescent of Gravesend 
Bay. Opposite, across the broad spread of the Lower 
Bay, were the distant Keyport hills; a strip of lower 


YESTERDAY. 


25 


ground joined them to the blue headland of Neversink, 
from here seeming to rise just behind the white tropical 
looking sandspit of Coney Island, bare and empty in those 
days, when the Brighton Beaches had not been thought 
of. It lay clear and sharpen the sun; but a soft haze 
hung on the Jersey shore. To the right of the dock ran 
out a low yellow point, the other horn of the crescent, 
beyond it was Staten Island, the dent of the Clove dis- 
tinctly marked between its two blue ridges, the flag-crested 
green bluff of the upper fort and the gray mass of ma- 
sonry of the lower standing out against the sky, and the 
yellow beaches meeting the water. 

“On my word, I like this place better the more I see 
of it,”' Sundon said. 

‘ ‘ I hope you do, ’’ said Hawk, ‘ ‘ or you’ll have to look 
up summer board by yourself. Of course there’ll be 
plenty of mosquitoes, but they’re everywhere.” 

“Where you are.” 

“Oh, I’ve ordered a bale of netting already, and 
charged it to Dan,” said Tyne. “We agreed each to 
contribute something, and I can save you all the trouble 
of deciding what.” 

“Well, Harry,” said Goring, now rejoining them, 
“what do you say to this .? ” 

“Oh, it’s plenty g6od enough; why should we go pok- 
ing round the country any longer.?” 


26 


YESTERDA Y. 


“Settled, then. We’ll take the house; you can tell that 
to your old sea-serpent, Mont. Where is he 1 ” 

“Gone to his dinner; he thinks I can be trusted to 
keep order.” 

“ That reminds me; we’d better have some kind of a 
bite." 

‘ ‘ Where } ” they all asked. “At Start’s ” 

“No, Start isn’t fairly open yet, and lives anyhow while 
the painters and plasterers are in the house. I’ll take 
you all to Coney Island.” 

“Rather noisy there,” suggested Tyne. 

“I know a quiet corner and first-rate oysters.” 

^ ‘ Objections withdrawn. ” 

“You all second the motion, you fellows? Come 
ahead then, as soon as we’ve settled with Firebrace; I see 
him looming up round the corner. ” 


CHAPTER II. 


G race drove along the straight road planted with lo- 
cust trees, leafless yet, to the sleepy little village 
through whose main street the railroad passed. The train 
was just vanishing in the distance, and a tall, bony, for- 
bidding woman in black, with an armful of parcels, was 
crossing the track and coming to meet her. 

“You’re late, Grace,” said Mrs. Bishop, for it was she. 
“I suppose some one has been to look at the house.?” 
“ Yes, Monteith sent a friend of his, but I am afraid — ” 
“ They won’t take it? Well, I have a better offer. So 
that kept you ? ” 

“No, the wagon wasn’t sent back from Smithson’s in 
time.” 

“Smithson is the slowest workman; I hope it’s well 
mended now. Don’t turn round; I want to go to the 
Belden’s; those things are for Florence. My telegram 
didn’t frighten you?” 

“Oh no.” 

“I had so many errands, I lost the train, and then 


28 


YESTERDAY. 


Mary Minot said I must stay — Take care of the rails ! 
if that wheel comes off again — I saw the Mackenzie girls, 
and they sent their love. What about Monteith’s friends } 
No, don't begin to tell me either; we're nearly there. 
You'd better tie the horse and come in too." 

They stopped at a little white house, not out of sound 
of the locomotive whistle, and within the village. “Doc- 
tor Belden" was on the door. The lady of the house, the 
Doctor’s sister, who had seen them from her window, let 
them in. She was a little dark woman, bright-eyed and 
spirited in spite of an air of physical delicacy, which last 
was evidently temporary and out of keeping. Her w^el- 
come to Mrs. Bishop was drjdy civil, to correspond to 
that lady’s; but she kissed Grace warmly, with a joking 
pretense of having to stand on tiptoe for the purpose. 

. “Are you really off so soon?" said Grace. “What 
shall I do without you, I who see no signs of getting 
away for myself ! ” 

“I’m sorry, but it's all settled; I begin to pack to- 
morrow. " 

“Do let me spend the day and help you.” 

‘ ‘ My dear girl ! Felix would be down on me at 
once for inhuman treatment of convalescents.” 

“What, when you're another?” 

“As if a few bad colds in a winter were to lay one on 
the shelf when spring is so well under way ! " 


YESTERDA Y. 


29 


“I thought that Doctor Belden considered you had 
congestion of the lungs, Florence, said Mrs. Bishop. 

‘^Only his medical name for a -trifling affair enough.’’ 

“I shall come and see that you do not over-fatigue 
yourself, as a neighbor,” Mrs. Bishop declared. 

“Many thanks. Only let me hint that Felix has his 
own theories of packing, and I shall have to ask you to 
follow some of them.” 

“But there must be something easy enough for me to 
do,” said Grace. 

“Just one thing now. Come in and talk to us. Fve 
been over my accounts till the air is full of figures, and 
Felix has been out since daybreak, and only just had 
breakfast; but now we’ve five minutes to spare both of 
us, so come in.” 

She led the way into a small parlor already half dis- 
mantled; her brother was just taking down the last of 
the few pictures ^photographs, and modern, but carefully 
chosen) from the walls; he turned, and his face lit up 
with a smile of pleasure when he saw the younger of 
the new-comers. A tall fellow not far from thirty, his 
somewhat slight figure yet looked wiry and well-knit. 
His features were rather irregular, his coloring fair, in- 
clining to the straw-brown tints, and his eyebrows so 
light as to be almost invisible. Luckily his eyes were 
large and very deep blue; accented by their color, his face 


30 


YESJ'ERDA Y. 


had a marked expression; and though his heavy light 
mustache quite covered his mouth, one divined its hon- 
est vigor from those eyes. He wore blonde whiskers, 
though not for Corbin’s reason, since his chin was square 
and well filled out. His clothes looked neat, but far 
from new; his whole effect was that of the poor gentle- 
man who yet does not waste time in thinking over better 
days. Some people thought him too reticent for a doctor; 
others liked him better for that very quality; these last felt 
that he would not alarm people with dangerous proba- 
bilities while there was yet hope, and that he would keep 
to himself such discoveries in the affairs of households as 
doctors sometimes cannot help making. 

The smile on his face did not linger long; perhaps be- 
cause Grace met it so gravely; still her voice sounded not 
displeased to see him. “You are looking better,” he said. 

‘ ‘ The season does me good, ” she answered. ‘ ‘ I am 
not like the rest of you, who delight in winter; I am 
only some forlorn sort of vegetable, that does not really 
begin to live till spring.” 

“Yes, Grace’s constitution is very extraordinary,” said 
Mrs. Bishop. “When the first mild weather makes every 
one else languid, she is revived; but that last frosty night, 
I thought she would be ill again. I hope that did not 
blight your hyacinths. Doctor; most of mine were with- 
ered by it, having come on too fast.” 


YESTERDAY. 


31 


“Oh, ours weathered it famously,” said Felix. “We 
must give you some, to make up for the tricks of the 
season. " 

“What if you take our friends into the garden and 
give them their choice now?” said Florence. “There's 
‘Mrs. Phelan the house-cleaner wanting me, and once she 
catches me, I don't know when I shall get away.” 

Mrs. Bishop, it now appeared, also wished an inter- 
view with Mrs. Phelan, who was a person much in de- 
mand in the neighborhood, and therefore not easily 
secured. So only Felix and Grace went into the little 
yard at the back of the house, where from one garden- 
bed spared from vegetables and currant-bushes, the soft 
mild day was welcomed by such a mass of bloom as con- 
tradicted in its richness the plain seeming of the place; 
yet there were not many plants, only each one of the finest. 

“Why, but what beauties you have!” said Grace. 

“There are fewer than I should like, but they are 
good specimens,” said Felix. 

‘ ‘ That they are, such full heads, and the single flow- 
ers so large, and standing out so well from each other. 
ITien you have grouped their colors so well, those buff 
ones with the violet, that salmon-color with the dark- 
purple, the pink with the light-blue.” 

‘ ‘ I tried a hint of yours in planting them. I hope it 
has succeeded” 


32 


YESTERDAY. 


“Perfectly.” To herself: “I don’t remember; it must 
have been some time ago; we met so seldom while I 
lived at Yonkers. Does he notice so closely what I 
say.^ Oh, of course he lays up little things to please 
his sister.” 

‘ ‘ Now I may give you some } ” 

“Oh no, thank you, you have none to spare.” 

“Oh yes, for our friends. Look, those are broken 
already, you must take them.” To himself: “If I could 
give her anything better ! ” 

“Thank you. But you should keep that peach- 
colored one for your sister.” 

“There is another by it that will be blown to-morrow. 
You see this is the last chance I may have of giv- 
ing you flowers. . If it rains to-night, it will spoil 
them. ” 

“It is such a little while before you go ! ” 

“If I had started alone, as I first planned, I should 
have been off even sooner. But when it came to the 
point, it was better we should not separate. We have 
let the house already. I think I have prospects, though 
professions are always over-crowded, even in California, I 
believe. ” 

“Do not begin discouraged; surely you have no need.” 
To herself: “That sounds little enough, but how shall I 
say more } ” 


V ESTER DA V. 


33 


^•Yoa are very kind.” To himself: “Can she really 
care, or is that only politeness ? ” 

“I am sorry you do not stay till after I am gone. 
(How I shall miss him indeed; if we might meet — but 
chance does not favor one so.)” 

“When do you start (If it only were with us, with 
me !) ” 

“ I do not know yet; my plans are still to be made; 
no engagement has offered; I belong also to an over- 
crowded profession,” smiling. 

“ Surely you need not wait long. (If I had anything 
to offer worth. her taking ! But a poor man — my fathers 
son—)” 

“I hope not. (If he were to say, ‘Come with me,’ 
I would not wait. But he will not.)” 

‘ ‘ You have my best wishes. (And nothing more ? 
Must I let her go out into the world to struggle for 
her own life.^ Yes, for it might be harder yet for her 
if she joined her fortunes with mine. I am not a lucky 
man. She must have friends who can help her better 
than I, whose aid is very likely more welcome. ) ” 

“And mine are yours. Is that my aunt calling me.^ 
(I must not say what* he does not care to hear.)” 

“Must you go? (Too soon, always too soon!)” 

“This is not good-bye yet. (Oh, no, no, no! I 
shall not lose him to-day at least. ) ” 


34 


Y ESTER DA V. 


“Not quite. We have a few more days. Let me 
carry your flowers; they might . stain your gloves, the 
stems are so juicy; I will put a paper round them in 
the house. (Oh yes, and you can do no more for 
her than that; what are you worth.? But some day, 
some day, if at last she lets me — )” 

So these two, with hearts heavy for each other, and 
each thinking the other cold, rejoined the others. 

“You have a long journey before you,'’ Mrs. Bishop 
was saying to Florence, when they came in. ' 

“Yes,” Florence answered; “luckily we are not bad 
sailors. It seems a long way round, though. I suppose 
now the Atlantic Cable is a fact, we shall have the Pacific 
Railroad one of these days; if the Indians do not pull 
up the tracks as fast as they are laid, we shall come back 
by it to call on you some fine afternoon. In the mean 
time, Grace, will you write to me once in a while ? The 
'first letter shall be mine; don’t forget that the second is 
yours, if once you agree.” 

“Willingly. As often as you send me questions, I 
shall answer them.” 

“That’s a bargain; you shall see how I mean to keep 
you to it.” 

“Are you sure she will care to write.? ” Felix asked his 
sister after Grace was gone. 

“You foolish fellow, trust me to make her,” Florence 


YESTERDA Y, 


35 


answered. Felix had not taken her into his confidence, 
still less Grace; but clearer-sighted than either, she di- 
vined the state of affairs on both sides. 

“Perhaps — Felix began. 

“Well.?” 

‘ ‘ Oh, nothing; I dare say you know best, after all. • 
Here comes the express with the packing-boxes.’^ 

The Beldens had had much to discourage them in 
their family history. Felix’s father, a merchant well to 
do and well thought of, when seemingly on the point 
of winning a great fortune, had sudden heavy losses, and 
in trying to make them good, became so heavily and 
questionably involved that he shot himself to escape be- 
ing called to account. Among the people he brought 
to poverty was his own daughter, Florence, who after the 
deaths of her mother and her husband had returned to 
live with her father, and intrusted to him the care of 
her little property. 

It was just at this moment that Felix Belden had fin- 
ished his studies, and was expecting to make a fair, per- 
haps a brilliant start, being considered a young man of 
great professional promise. 

The brother and sister gave up to the creditors every- 
thing that was left except some real estate, which, for the 
moment, was practically worthless, but which they were 
assured must, in the course of time, rise so much in 


36 


V ESTER DA V. 


value, that the proceeds of the sale of it would be enough 
to settle all claims. They then retired to the little Long 
Island house, the rent of which, till Felix could establish 
himself in practice, Florence undertook to help in making 
up by hue sewing. “You have nobody to give you an 
opening in any other line but your own, and you love 
that too well already to miss succeeding in it,” she told him. 

“I must get on on your account,” he answered, “for 
I mean myself to assume our fathers debt to you.” 

“That is not fair; indeed I cannot hear of it; you 
must not do any such thing,” she protested, but to no 
use, as she discovered when the time came. But that 
was years after. Meanwhile, the month’s end brought 
Felix’s first opportunity. The war broke out, ’ and he 
enlisted as an army surgeon. “Now I have something 
to do at once, and steady pay for it, if you can put up 
with my leaving you, Florence.” 

“It won’t be for long.” 

“Longer than you think. This war will not be fin- 
ished on the first battle-field; and we shall be only too 
lucky if the end of the fighting is the end of the struggle.” 

“Well, anyhow, my dear boy, do you go.” 

Felixis army career brought him reputation, but not 
much money. At the end of it, he returned to Long 
Island, and his small practice there, for the time, but 
with a determination to venture his lot somewhere else 


YESTERDA Y. 


37 


on the first chance. When a former comrade who had 
found good fortune in San Francisco suggested to him to 
try what he could do there, he was quite ready for the 
move. Two circumstances influenced him further; his 
sister’s health had given him much anxiety through the 
winter; and his growing love for Grace Delahay made 
him eager to win the power to test her feeling towards 
him. They had been children together, and even then 
sympathetic to each other as children rarely are; of late 
years they had met less often, but every time had been 
precious to him. Still, poor as he was, how could he 
think of marriage.? said he to himself. Westward-ho, 
then ! Florence’s life and his love might be lost by 
staying at home. 

“The Beldens will be rather a loss,” Mrs. Bishop 
said to Grace, as they drove away; “Florence at least; 
Fm never quite certain about Felix; scientific men have 
queer ideas, and his father’s son — well, we shall see.” 

“Nothing but good, I imagine.” 

“Do you know him so well, Grace.?” 

“My father always thought highly of him, aunt.” 

“Your father — I valued your father, certainly; but 
he was too easy in his judgment of people; some of 
the visitors at his house I should not like to see in 
mine.” 


38 


YESTERDAY. 


‘‘Your Cousin Monteith, for instance. I never un- 
derstood why your mother allowed that acquaintance to 
go on after he returned from Europe.” 

“You were not with us then,” Grace answered. She 
remembered very well how Tyne had come to see them 
(“between the steamer and the camp,” as he said, hav- 
ing volunteered on the day of landing), and taken a 
farewell of his two kinswomen, more sadly than she 
could guess why, till after he was gone, her mother 
gave her some hint of a wasted and mis-spent life; and 
how he had returned when peace came, saying at first, 
bitterly, “So I have cheated you by not getting killed 
after all,” and finally, after her mother’s gentle remon- 
strance: “Well, let me have a little care of you two, and 
I shan’t feel so disappointed at not meeting my Rebel 
bullet.” But none of this would she tell to Mrs. Bishop, 
who now went on: 

“Do you expect him to keep it up, now you are 
under my roof.?” 

“ My mother and I always found my Cousin Mont 
a gentleman, and the kindest of friends besides. I can- 
not forget that at your asking; I know what is due to 
you; but, you see, I owe him something also. If }ou 
wish, I will tell him not to come to see me at your 
house; but I shall not like to give such a message, for 
I do not think it fair to him.” 


YESTERDAY. 


39 


*‘Tell me one thing, Grace; are either of you in 
love with the other?” 

*‘No, aunt, you may be easy on that score.” 

“Well, then, I suppose he may visit you. He under- 
stands what I think of him.” 

“Do you really know anything against him since he 
came back from abroad ? ” 

. “Only that he still goes about with a good many 
very worthless men. I would not care to have him and 
his party in my house, if I never let it; besides I have a 
very good offer already; the Waldrons will come to see us 
to-morrow, and I think I am sure of them. I’ve heard of 
Monteith’s friends; a pretty set ! Did he bring them all ? ” 

“Only one, a Mr. Harry Sundon.” . 

“ Brought him to my hguse, and you there ! ” 

“I was not supposed to be.” 

“I must speak to Monteith. Why, Mr. Sundon "s 
an actor.” 

“Yes. Is that all?” 

“All I know positively. People tell you in a general 
way that he’s very dissipated. But of course he is if he’s 
on the stage. They all are. He must be a vulgar crea- 
ture, to judge from the pictures of him that stare at you 
from every tobacco-shop in New York.” Mrs. Bishop 
was more observing, in her own fashion, than her nephew 
supposed. 


40 


Y ESTER DA Y. 


“They do him no more justice than usual with such 
things. He is rather handsome, and not at all vulgar; 
at least, he knows how to take his cue from the people 
he meets, and would not be familiar^f he was given no 
chance; still, I do not believe I should ever like him 
himself as well as I do his acting. But who are the 
others.? Mont did not tell me; only said they would 
take the Firebrace house, after all.'’ 

“There’s Charley Corbin, his mother was an old 
schoolmate of mine, Kitty Doon; she’s a widow now, 
and he gives her a great deal of anxiety. ” 

“He seems a harmless sort of youth by nature, after 
all.” 

“Maybe. We might have him call here, since you 
know him; his mother would like it. Ever since he was 
taken into Mr. Goring’s office, she has been very uneasy.” 

“]Mr. Goring the banker?” 

‘ ‘ Yes. ” 

“What is he like?” 

“A great noisy man that talks loud in boats and cars, 
and keeps all sorts of extraordinary horses, and is very 
rich and extravagant, and drinks, I am sure. It was a 
good business position for Charley, but Kitty feels the 
moral influences there are bad, and begged me that we 
would try and counteract them; after such a request from 
a friend we might make an exception, in spite of our 


YESTERDA Y. 


4 


mourning. Mr. Goring, you see, is of this party; and 
so is Mr. Hawk, your friend Emma Minot’s admirer.” 

“I have no fancy for him, and I hope she has none 
either. ” 

“She has refused him. Her mother told me so.” 

“ I don’t wonder.” 

“Nobody seems to know much against him; he’s 
ver}^ clever, and very successful; but everybody’s afraid of 
him. The Minots thought him mercenary, too. To 
be sure they are suspicious.” 

“Poor Emma! Poor little heiress! I am glad I 
have no money.” 

“Ah, Grace, money is a good thing, after better ones, 
of course. When I think that you might have been as 
great a match as Emma, if your father had only been 
more prudent ! ” 

“I would rather be as 1 am.” 

This Mrs. Bishop could not understand; nor did Grace 
expect it. She knew that with her mother she had lost 
for the time sympathetic womanly companionship. 


CHAPTER HI. 


H arry SUNDON was an actor by destiny, one might 
say; the representative of a family whose traditions 
were of the stage, so far as they could be traced back, 
with little interruption. The original stock was English; 
the first one known of it, Jack Sundon, was a foundling 
picked up by a kind-hearted farmer one winter evening 
in a lonely lane; he took his surname from the nearest 
town, when he came to need one; who or what his real 
parents were no one ever knew, though the farmer s wife 
always declared at least one of them must have been of 
gentle blood. Jack, as he grew older, certainly had a 
natural grace and curious wayward brilliancy different 
from the plain people about him. His adopted pa- 
rents e.xpected great things of him; but they died when 
he was only fi/teen, and the next of kin turned him 
out to shift for himself. He joined a company of 
strolling players and made his way gradually to Lon- 
don; there, after a hard and disheartening struggle, he 
found himself at last one day a popular actor. The 


YESTERDA Y. 


43 


diarists and letter-writers of the last century record their 
enthusiasm for him, some even preferring him above his 
more famous rivals on account of a certain strong and 
serious simplicity in his acting, which they declare to 
have had wonderful effect in tragic parts. However, his 
career was short; he died of a malignant fever at thirty- 
five in the prime of his powers and success. He left a 
widow and one child. The stricken woman, disowned 
before by her prosperous ‘ ‘ tradesman ” father for her 
marriage, had been devoted to her husband; and not- 
withstanding his uncertain temper and wayward nature, 
he had recognized her devotion enough to make her 
happy in her recollections. She brought up their boy, 
Alphonso, to admire his father and his father’s profes- 
sion; so that in due time he also appeared on the 
boards, and in similar parts. 

Unfortunately the inevitable comparison between the 
two Sundons was not at all in the younger one’s favor. 
Alphonso had failed to inherit his father’s simple genius; 
with a certain amount of talent, he was studied and af- 
fected at his best after all. His character showed the 
same differences; instead of the dash and spontaneous- 
ness of an imprudent but attractive nature, he was as 
formal, cold, and “respectable” by temperament as 
his own maternal grandfather could desire. An early 
marriage with a lively little actress of French parentage 


44 


Y ESTER DA Y. 


was rather out of keeping with all this, it is true; but 
Stella died at the birth of her first child. When in 
good time Alphonso wished to marry again, he chose 
a wife from among his mother’s people, and was al- 
lowed to have her, on condition of leaving the stage 
and going into his father-in-law’s business. This he 
not unwillingly did, for his theatrical- career was threat- 
ening to end "in failure in the near future. He was 
not so very much more successful in his new line, but 
on the whole it pleased him better. There were a num- 
ber of children by this marriage, staid and practical young 
people one and all; these finding it hard to keep afloat 
in England on means a good deal limited by the need 
of dividing among so many, sought their fortunes in 
Canada; they were too excessively British to approve 
of the United States as a place of abode, beside, their 
fiither had had a not over lucky theatrical trip there, 
which made the family connection look upon that country 
with great distrust. 

It happened though that Alphonso Sundon’s eldest 
boy Frederic, being of a different strain, turned out other- 
wise. His father looked upon him from the first as a 
memorial of mishaps which it would have been more 
agreeable to forget; he was poor little Stella’s son, and 
born during that unfortunate American tour. Still, when 
he began to develop into an unquestionably clever young 


YESTRRDA Y. 


45 


fellow, much more promising than his brothers and sisters, 
Alphonso dreamed of a distinguished clerical career for 
him. It was a rude awakening when Fred declared he 
would hear of no such thing; that he meant to go on the 
stage, and in comedy at that. The young man would 
have his way, his fathers opposition proving entirely fu- 
tile. Furthermore, two or three trips to America brought 
Fred to make the United States his home; he rarely vis- 
ited England henceforth, and without actual quarrel be- 
came notwithstanding estranged from his family; his father 
excepted, they had no more to do with his history. 

Fred Sundon’s professional success was very marked, 
and continued all his life; he played to crowded houses 
till within a week of his death. He was all the more 
popular perhaps that his talent was not of a genial kind; 
his great strength lay in those touches of satiric bitterness 
which are always the fashion, always in common nature; 
touches which are usually imagined refinements, though 
in actual life they mark the street-boy and the school- 
boy rather than the man who really knows the world; this 
was his art, in which he was perfect; it was neither af- 
fectation nor study with him; he was born a comedian, 
not for love of laughter or enjoyment of life, but from 
the demands of morbidly keen critical instincts and of a 
sense of the ridiculous which was an analyst’s, not a hu- 
morist’s. His first deliberate criticism was of his father. 


46 


YESTERDAY. 


as a decidedly absurd person (though, through all their 
oppositions, he could not help some affection for him); 
and he did not spare any one else more; neither had he 
any pity for himself; perhaps his sharpest wounds were 
those given him by his own blunders and shortcomings. 
As he made no secret of his disposition, he had few 
friends; most people were moved to impatience by his 
outspoken bitterness; and the world, which expects those 
who amuse it to be always amusing, without stopping to 
consider on its part what the quality of the entertainment 
may portend, voted him insufferable except on the stage. 
This pleased him in a grim way, as many things in life 
did that would have distressed other natures; but not all; 
he had his tender spot too. 

There had been one crushing disappointment in his 
life, which he could not laugh at or ignore, — his mar- 
riage. He prided himself on never being taken in, and 
was sure he understood the woman he fell in love 
with; though he had great confidence in his own powers 
of pleasing when he chose, he was inclined to think he 
ran some risk. Still he ventured his happiness for the 
sake of her beauty, her gayety, her easy temperament 
that rested him from his own. Afterwards he wished 
that he could have pleaded blindness at first, and thereby 
gained the right to reproach her more. Still he clung 
to her till she forsook him; then he let her go without 


' ^ YESTERDAY. 47 

further effort to retain her. She left him their child, a 
boy of six years old, whom she had also loved a little while, 
then neglected, disregarded, forgotten. Fred Sundon, in 
the bitterness of his heart, — wounded in his love and 
in his pride, thinking himself the joke or the pity of his 
acquaintance, ridiculous as well as injured in his own 
eyes, — imagined at first that the last ridicule and the 
last injury had not been spared him, and that the boy 
was probably not his own. Still nothing was sure, and 
the creature could not be thrown away with the mother s 
old gloves and broken fans. Fred heard of a country 
boarding school which was highly recommended and 
not at all dear; he sent Harry there, and forgot him for 
the time. 

A day came, however, when Fred, having an engage- 
ment for a season in England, took the first occasion to 
see his father, now grown very old. Alphonso was cared 
for by a stiff little daughter of the second brood, who 
only waited his death to join the rest in Canada. He 
had become so indifferent to life that she was startled 
at the enthusiasm which he showed in renewing old ties 
with the son of his youth, — a half-brother who actually 
frightened her, he was such an unaccustomed personage 
and had such a man-of-the-world air. The grandfather 
had been brooding, it soon appeared, on the thought 
of the grandson he had never seen. The mother being 


48 


YESJ'ERDA y. 


now dead and safely out of the way, Fred was willing 
to consider the idea, and had begun a letter direct- 
ing that Harry should be sent out to him, when Al- 
phonso suddenly died. The letter was not finished; 
but from that time Fred’s thoughts began to center on 
FI any. » 

'‘The boy can’t be left at school for ever; he’s fifteen 
already; I must do something with him,” was the first 
idea; then came the question, “what.?” followed by the 
conviction, “1 must see him before I can tell.” The 
few duty letters Harry and the schoolmaster wrote gave 
no clew as to the real nature of the boy; nor any in- 
formation to speak of about the school either. At that 
the father grew uneasy. If the place were a bad one, 
perhaps, and Harry were injured by harsh training, 
stunted in body or mind, made sullen, cowardly, 
false — 

Fred had almost forgotten his old suspicions, and 
could now hardly wait for his engagement to be up 
before he went to find out the result of his first indif- 
ference. When at last the time came, and he saw his 
boy again, the relief was great, even to the extent of 
making a movement in his life towards happiness, — a 
change he had believed absolutely impossible. 

The school turned out “a very harmless one,” as Fred 
put it. The air and climate were good, the other influ- 


YRSTERDA Y. 


49 


ences not bad; the boys had plenty to eat, and were not 
overworked. In the matter of scholarship .the institution 
did not rank very high, but whoever wanted to learn 
something could at least make a good beginning; while 
for play such as young growing creatures need there was 
plenty of chance; they rowed and swam in summer and 
skated in winter, there being a river convenient; they had 
a large playground, where a base-ball nine practiced its 
way towards what nowadays would be amateur distinction, 
and smaller games filled up the corners; the farm which 
provided supplies for the establishment, being near at 
hand, contributed to occasions of amusement in various 
ways. If the discipline was slack, at least it gave little 
room for temptations to evade it; and so few things were 
forbidden that the boys had not much to be deceitful 
about. 

As for Fred's own boy, the father found him “surpris- 
ingly attractive,'* he said. Harry was unquestionably a 
Sundon, though handsomer than they had been since 
Great-grandfather Jack's day. Fred inclined to lament his 
own looks, notwithstanding their defects were sometimes an 
advantage professionally; but he was pleased to see that 
Harry “had a fairer start on that line." Then he had 
feared shyness, instead of the frank welcome he had met; 
and awkwardness, whereas Harry was quick and easy in 
movement and manner; and stupidity, when after all the 


50 


YESTERDA Y. 


\ 

boy was the cleverest in school. Not the best scholar, 
though. The master lamented that he would only do 
what he fancied, and that his inclinations were only strong 
in the way of “speaking pieces” and kindred matters; 
no other studies interested him, and with all his abilities 
he was generally behind the duller but more painstaking 
of his companions. “I confess, Mr. Sundon, I am at 
my wit’s end with him sometimes; promising as he is, I 
do not know what you will make of him.” 

“Something in my own profession, I rather think, ” an- 
swered Fred. “That’s good enough for any man who 
knows how to do it.” 

“ Perhaps he would prefer some other calling, though,” 
suggested the schoolmaster, with an involuntary air of mild 
surprise. 

“Oh, he shall have his say; I don’t force any one be- 
longing to me to go against the grain; I know it’s no use. 
We’ll have a bit of talk together by ourselves, and I’ll soon 
see what he’ll turn to.” 

As his father had hoped (though not expected, holding 
the theory of the contradictory nature of things), Harry 
took at once to the idea of acting. “ What fun ! I 
should like nothing better.” 

“Not so much of a joke as you think, though. If you 
want — and I hope my son does; I did — to distinguish your- 
self, to do something better than make a living, and be 


Y ESTER DA V. 


51 


something more than the common run of stock actors, it 
isn’t enough to trust to your wits and your observation. 
You’ll have to study hard if you mean to be what you 
ought. ” 

Harry’s face lengthened a little. 

‘‘I shan’t be satisfied,” Fred went on, “till I see you as 
good an actor as the French ones; and if you should come 
short, don’t let it be for want of trying and working for 
it. I tell you what, the thing’s worth doing, though you 
mayn’t believe me.” 

“ Why shouldn’t I, father.? You’ve had the chance of 
knowing. ” 

‘ ‘ That’s something, if you see that; I was afraid you 
wouldn’t, since you’ve had no experience; but now you 
shall have. I can’t do anything else for you, but I can do 
that; I know my world, and have influence in it, but not 
in any other. There I can push you when you’re fit to be 
pushed; nowhere else.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, I’ll make the best of it, and I’m sure it’s worth 
while, don’t be afraid. I’ve heard of you, father, way up 
here just as much as anywhere; people know all over the 
country who you are and what you can do; you’ve made 
a name that even the newspapers can’t get away from you. ” 

“And you must do as much, and more if you can; if 
you can beat me at my own game, so much the better. 
We’ll see.” Fred felt a curious unaccustomed thrill as 


52 


YESTERDAY. 


he spoke, more of pain than pleasure. *‘Here I have 
been forgetting my boy,” he thought, “and all this time 
he has been proud of me.” 

For the next ten years the father and son were con- 
stant companions, and great friends in their own way. 
The young men wondered how Harry got on with such 
a queer old bear; the elders, how Fred Sundon, who in- 
clined to a quiet life for himself, could put up with such 
a reckless young Bohemian. But Fred declared, “ I ex- 
pect boys to be cold and selfish, and any warmth or gen- 
erosity on the part of mine pleases me a long time, par- 
ticularly as the times lap over; ” while Harry’s answer was 
simpler: “How can you quarrel with anybody that, no 
matter what he says, always leaves you to your own way.?” 
Certainly Fred never tried to control his son’s actions; he 
spoke his mind frankly when anything seemed amiss to 
him, and that happened quite often; but that was all, 
from the first. “ What can I do .? ” he said. “The boy’s 
too old for me to be beating him or locking him up, and 
if I keep him short he’ll be borrowing of people who can’t 
very well lend, next thing. He’ll know better some day; 
I’ve been as foolish in my time.”' 

“Yes, boys must sow their wild oats,” commented an 
elderly acquaintance, who had by no means left -off that 
kind of field-work. 

“ It’s done you so much good ! ” said Fred, with a sud- 


Y ESTER DA Y. 


53 


den snap, which so disconcerted the speaker that he for- 
got he had come to borrow five dollars. 

Not long before his death, Fred spoke out once for all 
what he hoped and feared. 

“There’s no question to me, Harr}^, that you’ll be the 
best of us; you have a career before you; you can trifle as 
well as I, and you can make melodrama seem real trag- 
edy, which I can’t. You won’t have me to criticise you 
much longer, I think; and now you can do without me, 
and it won’t matter. But I wish I could be as easy about 
your personal as your professional future; I see rocks 
ahead there, and I don’t see why you should waste your 
time finding them out. You will, though; you’re your 
mother’s son as well as mine, worse luck. You’ll never 
be false, but you’ll always be too fond of your own way to 
think beforehand of where it may bring you.” 

“You don’t think I’m a fool, father.” 

“No; but I think you do plenty of foolish things, and 
some day you may slip into something more than foolish, 
and not get out of it. If you could live for your profes- 
sion alone, you’d be safe; but I don’t believe any one 
ever did, and I know you can’t; it’s not in you, you’re 
not strong enough.” 

“You’ll see that I am.” 

“I shan’t see that you’re not, you mean. Don’t 
promise what you can’t do. I’ve loved you better than 


54 


Y ESTER DA Y. 


anything else, but IVe understood you, just as I have othef 
things. I shall hate it, not to be about any more to 
help you out of tight places; but my time’s coming.” 

It did come, sooner even than Fred expected. 

In spite of Harry’s genuine love for his father and 
grief for him, certain people declared that Fred Sundon 
had had no real influence over the young man, and 
that “he would go to the dogs without stopping now.’" 
They were soon put in the wrong. Harry had much 
in himself to distract him from any one course of life, 
to be sure; a social temperament (in spite of a quick 
temper), a great deal of curiosity about his fellow-crea- 
tures and their ways, and an unlimited capacity for en- 
joying himself, simply as well as luxuriously. Besides, 
impulsive as he was, he was capable of receiving 
impressions at once sudden and lasting; a feeling which 
came quickly did not always pass away as soon with 
him, but was likely to remain or return. Most people 
will not believe there are such natures; but it is true. 

Notwithstanding, the stuff of an artist was in him, 
and his father had brought it out; with comparatively 
little trouble, too; since Harry, beside the love of his 
work and the ambition to succeed, was gifted with a 
natural ease in using his powers such as is not the -por- 
tion of every genius even; this might have been a disad- 
vantage and a cause of failure, to be sure, and yet it 


YhSTERDA K 


55 


did not so turn out Certainly a young fellow with only 
self-control enough to check him from making himself 
ridiculous to his companions, and no fixed principles 
beyond the idea of keeping his word and cheating no- 
body, may lead a very unsteady life. Still such a man 
is no worse, better indeed, for having a calling which 
demands — as all artistic callings do — that, to pro- 
duce any succession of important results, both body and 
mind must be a good deal in tune. Otherwise the bril- 
liant record cuts itself short after the first page, or dwin- 
dles into mediocrity. Harry was too proud at heart to 
accept either of these alternatives. 

He had not, as a young actor, the personal popularity 
of some; but that troubled him little. • *‘The ladies don’t 
all want my photograph, as they do So-and-So’s, ” he 
said; *‘but those pretty little hands can’t clap loud, after 
all; so we are even.” Part of his audience indeed de- 
clared that he played the villain too well for them to 
forget it when they saw him as the lover in the next 
piece; and part preferred a tragedian’s costumes and 
speeches to the more everyday appearance and language 
of a “dress-coat actor;” such a judgment was more the 
fashion, perhaps, when Harry’s career began, than it 
would be now; people drew the line then more sharply 
between the “legitimate drama” and the “adapted 
French plays” in which he found his element. Nof- 


5 ^ 


YESTERDAY. 


withstanding, he had a strong party, particularly among 
the men, who voted him “a capital actor, and a first- 
rate fellow besides; best company in the world, for all 
he’s a trifle quick-tempered. He’s too much of a man 
for the girls, that’s all.” This was Goring s opinion, 
and he was an authority in masculine circles. But there 
was another side of the case (which Goring would have 
laughed at, to be sure, had he known it, not having any 
such feeling himself). The truth was, that though Harry 
was ready to make himself agreeable to women if they 
came in his way, he did not then think their society worth 
seeking. He had a secret sensitiveness which led him to 
resent patronage always, and even petting sometimes; in- 
tercourse with the better class of women seemed to him 
to involve both; he did not feel with them as if he was 
being frankly met on equal ground, and he preferred to 
see little of them. 

The world thought it understood him entirely, when 
he surprised^ it in the time of the Great Rebellion, by 
volunteering in a New York regiment just before Gettys- 
burg was fought. “ Haven’t much to do in the summer, 

you know, and the Theater going to pieces has broken 

up my winter engagements,” were all the reasons he gave; 
he was afraid his friends of that time would laugh at him 
if he owned his enthusiasm for the cause and his sense 
of shame at staying behind. But people guessed it. 


VESTERDA V. 


57 


and when he came back to New York at the end of 
the war, it made his return to his old place in his own 
city all the easier. 

One thing he brought back from the field was a 
friend — Monteith Tyne. 

Mrs. Bishop had had reasons for her estimate of her 
nephew; there was enough in Tyne’s past to make 'him 
still seem a doubtful person in many eyes. He had been 
born rich and clever, but, with no inherited business con- 
nection (the fortune came through his fathers luck in 
selling land that had hitherto impoverished the family), 
and no special fancy for any pursuit; he was a young 
man of leisure,— and he used his leisure badly, con- 
tradicting a good education and a sensitive temperament. 

“It is a hard thing for me,” Grace’s father once said 
to a friend, “ to see Mont live as he does. He might be 
anything he chose; he acknowledges he ought to do 
better, and would like to, — and yet — 'deteriora seqiiar!'’' 

Deteriora,' very certainly,” the friend answered. 

“And yet a gentleman in spite of himself,” Delahay 
concluded. 

Before the Rebellion, a young man of Tyne’s tastes, 
both good and bad, was likely to spend more time in 
Europe than in America. In his case, his flying visits 
abroad ended in his becoming apparently settled there, 
and for a reason which called forth strong protests from 


58 


YESTERDA Y. 


Delahay, when he came to know it positively enough. 
*^For your counti^'^s sake if not for your own/’ he 
wrote, on the news of Fort Sumter, — the last time he 
ever put pen to paper, — “break off this disgraceful 
affair now, and come home to an honorable service. 
You are doubly wrong if you stay.” The letter touched 
Tyne; but he lingered on in Europe, and it was not 
his own hand that loosed his bonds at last. It had 
long been settled that the Countess — a very real Coun- 
tess she was, an Austrian beauty — would marry again 
whenever the Count died. So she did; but her second 
husband was not her American lover; he was discarded 
for one of her own countrymen, a handsome officer 
who had not found out how many years she was his 
senior. 

Tyne went home with hopes of losing his life in the 
war, but did not succeed. He distrusted every one at 
first, except only Grace and her mother; but Harry 
Sundon won him in spite of himself, and the two men 
had finally become even confidential friends. It was 
on Harry’s account that Tyne had joined in the plan 
of taking the house on Long Island, which had been 
got up by Hawk and Goring, men who did not please 
him at all, but whom Harry declared “good enough 
company for vacation.” Tyne had no strong interests 
of his own any more; he felt himself like a shadow 


YESTERDA Y. 


59 


among other people’s realities, a ghost in the land of 
the living; he could not recover that existence which 
he had after all destroyed with his own hands; but what 
his friends thought and did was of vital importance to 
him. 

As for the other sharers in the summer’s enterprise, 
Hawk, though in flourishing business, was by no 
means always able to amuse himself as he pleased 
without help; Goring “liked any jolly crowd;” and 
Corbin was flattered by being allowed to accompany 
the older men, knew he would have chances of young- 
er mates when he fancied, and besides wanted to see a 
little more of Grace Delahay. 


CHAPTER IV. 



RACE met Felix Belden a few times more before he 


went away; but in the company of his family, of. 
Mrs. Bishop, of neighbors, expressmen, people coming 
in on various errands of business or good-feeling. Before 
these witnesses neither of the silent lovers allowed them- 
selves any expression of what was tormenting them. Their 
very farewell was a cool one, since neither dared to show 
the warmth they felt; for fear of too much, they made 
each other miserable with too little. 

So that chapter was ended, Grace thought; to be sure, 
she should hear from Florence, but letters are only life 
at second-hand. Her business was with her own future 
now. She advertised in a paper or two, put her name 
and address on the books of a teacher’s agency, and 
waited for her^^hance; a little anxious under the insis- 
tences of both Tyne and Mrs. Bishop, that she should 
not take whatever offered, as she inclined to do, but 
choose the best, even if she delayed in making her start. 

Mrs. Bishop meanwhile had secured her tenant, Mrs. 


YESTERDA Y. 


6l 


Waldron, once Mrs. Pelham, a rich widow, who had sur- 
prised -everybody by marrying a very insignificant little 
clergyman, half-a-dozen years younger and half a head 
shorter than herself Even Mrs. Bishop could not resist 
a smile when Tyne said, “ Mrs. Pelham was always fond 
of little pet animals, so no wonder she should have picked 
up one more when she wanted a special chaplain.” Mrs. 
Waldron and Mrs. Bishop spent a great deal of time to- 
gether; Grace was glad to be left to herself Mr. Wald- 
ron made some attempts to interest her in Ritualism, but 
he soon grew afraid of her, and still more of her cousin. 
Tyne came over to see his ‘ ‘ little sister ” whenever he was 
at the Firebrace house; that was often, for he was con- 
stantly busy there, amusing himself with making it more 
comfortable. He had it all his own way; the other men 
were only too glad to leave it to him; and when, the sum- 
mer vacation beginning, they all took possession one fine 
evening, the party paid him the compliment of being 
pleased with his arrangements. 

At first there was a sudden spell of hot weather, and 
they were quite satisfied to lounge about their own quar- 
ters; then a rainstorm from the east made it dull there, 
and they remembered they had some acquaintances at 
Start’s hotel, now fast filling up. The beach led directly 
to it, without a fence or a break, passable even at high 
tide; and that way soon knew their footsteps well. Of 


62 


YESTERDA Y. 


course in weather that melted your shirt-collar as soon as 
you got it on, one didn’t care about seeing people; but 
when the sun went down or the sea-breeze came up, 
Start’s length of the beach was more amusing than their 
own. It was an easy place, without much dressing or 
fuss; you could make yourself quite at home. Indeed 
one day landlord Start, — a jolly old soul, but laboring 
under occasional fits of dignity, — ventured a complaint 
on this ground. 

“Mr. Tyne,” he said, taking him aside, “I’ve known 
you boy and man, and I don’t mean any offense, on my 
soul I don’t; but if you can keep your gentlemen to your- 
self a bit, I wish you would just now, seeing it’s the height 
of the season beginning, and it ain’t so long here as it 
might be.” 

“Why, what’s to pay.'’ I wouldn’t have you put out, 
if I knew; but I’ve been up the river half the week, and 
had no idea they were running free.” 

“Well, Mr. Tyne, ’tain’t you, of course. You’re 
always the gentleman, and if you weren’t, you’d keep it 
dark at least. And ’tain’t Mr. Sundon; I thought he’d 
be a regular one when he first came, but bless you, he’s 
no more trouble than you are. But night before last, 
Mr. Goring, he came over to play billiards with some 
gentlemen from Pittsburg, and he’d had something to 
drink already, and they all had some more, and first 


VEST/i/^Dy1 V. 


^3 


thing you know they got into a row over their gan:e, and 
he pitched a cue at the nighest one, and it broke a win- 
dow and smashed a lamp, and most set the house afire. 

“Oh, that's too bad, to be sure. Send us in your 
bill.’' 

“No, Mr. Tyne, I don’t want to be mean about the 
glass, and I don’t pretend to keep a temperance house 
neither; but what I mind is, a shindy that discredits my 
place; for sure enough, two families were off next day, 
and who knows what kind of a story they’ll be telling? 
And then Mr. Corbin and Mr. Hawk — though Mr. Cor- 
bin wouldn’t be much mischief if he was by himself — ” 

“Well?” 

‘ ‘ I won’t say they don’t tell good stories, as far as my 
own taste goes; I never laughed so in my life as I did at 
some of them; but if they will sit and talk outside on 
my piazza by the open windows, when all the old ladies 
get together just inside, they’ll make me trouble with the 
old ladies, Mr. Tyne.” 

“I’ll see what I can do. Start; Hawk’s rather beyond 
me, but I think I know how to manage the other two.” 
And Tyne strolled off towards his aunt’s. 

His visits there were little less frequent than at first; 
and he was often accompanied by Corbin or Harry. 
Corbin had no idea — though Tyne was in the secret, — 
that this special privilege of visiting a charming girl, 


64 


YESTERDAY. 


whose mourning caused her to receive few people, was 
owing only to his mother’s solicitude. Mrs. Bishop made 
him welcome. But she never could reconcile herself to 
Harry’s being placed on the same footing. Tyne how- 
ever refused to interfere. “One need not be so formal 
in the country; Grace makes no objections; my friend 
has as much need of good society as that boy, and is bet- 
ter worth knowing himself.” 

“They do seem both on their good behavior when 
they are here,” Mrs. Bishop acknowledged. 

“Of course; they recognize that Grace is a lady, or I 
should keep them away from her.” 

“ It’s a great comfort to me that I can trust her with 
you so,” IMrs. Bishop further admitted. “She needs 
fresh air, and I am not strong enough to matronize her 
on your boating parties. But if all this should end in a 
love-affair.? To be sure, I shouldn’t object to Charley 
Corbin, and I know she has too good taste to put up 
with your actor friend.” 

“Reverse the order,” Tyne thought, “and I might 
agree wdth you.” 

As for Hawk and Goring, they had determined some- 
time before that Tyne’s relations w'ere bores; and the 
ladies, that those gentlemen were insufferable; so both 
pairs avoided one another, to the satisfaction of all 
concerned. 


CHAPTER V, 


O NE morning late in July, Sundon and Tyne had 
planned a long sail, and had just made their boat 
ready, when the wind, which had been doubtful, fell al- 
together. The sun was overcast, and the day not yet 
hot; so, having nothing settled to do next, they walked 
along the beach till they came to the roof of boughs un- 
der which the people from the hotel spent a great part of 
their days. As they neared it, Corbin came to meet 
them; he had been seeing some friends off. 

^‘There’s a whole crowd of new people this morn- 
ing,” he said: ‘‘all the world and his wife, not count- 
ing the girls — Oh, and there’s a head of hair round ^here 
worth looking at. Vv'e didn’t come to any conclusion 
about real blondes last night; now I’ve one to show you.” 

He led them to one side, and pointed out a lady who 
had taken off her hat, and toened up her wavy flaxen 
hair, still damp from an early sea-bath, in a careless 
twist. Her back was turned to them; she appeared to 


^6 


YRSJ'ERDA V. 


be in a reverie, neither speaking to any one near her nor 
stirring. 

“On my word,” said Harry, drawing off that she 
should not hear, “that’s worth calling us for. So fine, 
so light, so much of it ! ” 

“Two shades too near the ash, and maybe not all 
real,” said Tyne; “but it’s pretty.” 

“Oh, it’s all her own,” said Corbin; “the first I saw 
of it she took her hat off, and it all tumbled down in 
a regular cascade, and she just twirled it up this minute.” 

“Why weren’t we here to see!” said Harry. 

“But is she pretty herself.?” said Tyne. 

“Of course, with such hair and such shoulders.” 

“You’re too easy to please this morning, Harry; you 
may be disappointed yet. I only see such a figure as 
any other tolerably made young woman’s, such another 
white morning dress with lilac ribbons, such another 
tip of the newest style of slipper.” 

“I won’t try to settle so nice a point,” said Corbin; 
“but I shouldn’t have noticed her hair so much if I 
hadn’t thought her face matched it. Come and speak 
to the Garay girls, — ^you know them, don’t you.? — and 
then you can tell.” 

With that he walked round to the front of the plat- 
form, and stopped to exchange a few words with some 
young ladies there; the others, while doing the same, 


YESTERDA K 


67 


had a chance of observing the new-comer; the more 
that she turned to the lady next her, with a hurried 
question in a low voice, and a glance their way. Harry 
thought, — and was not mistaken, — that she fancied she 
recognized him; after her companion had answered her 
she continued to look towards him, — less shyly, yet not 
boldly, and with a certain surprised attentiveness. He 
was quite used to such a thing, and never disliked it; 
but this time it was really pleasant: she was so pretty 
a creature, with her great blue clear eyes, her little 
straight nose, her rosebud mouth and dimpled chin. 

Just then a large black-haired florid man, whom most 
people would have called handsome, — in Goring’s style, 
but for a respectable air that gentleman was not likely 
to acquire, — came up from behind and touched the 
blonde lady on the shoulder, saying impatiently, “ Are 
you never coming, Thyra.? You haven’t changed your 
mind again, eh.?” 

She jumped up with a provoked little look, gave him 
a novel and a parasol to carry, and they walked away. 

‘ ‘ Who is she ? ” Harry asked of the eldest Miss Garay, 
a lady who he felt was considering him as curiously as 
the stranger had, but from whom such notice seemed 
less of a compliment. 

“A Mrs. Lang from somewhere in the West, I be- 
lieve,” was the answer. 


68 


YESTERDA Y. 


“That’s her husband, I suppose.” 

“Yes. I should think he was rather a common sort 
^ of man.” Miss Garay was particular, and not at all 
sure that she was obliged to Corbin for presenting Harry. 

“He doesn’t seem the kind that you would be accus- 
tomed to meet,” answered Harry, and rose at once in 
Miss Garay’s esteem. 

“Well, what do you think of our new beauty.?” said 
Corbin, when, the sun coming out bright, the Miss 
Garays returned to the hotel and the men to their own 
quarters. “ I thought those girls would never let us go, 
to give me the chance to ask you.” 

“Such a valuable piece of information!” said Harry, 
laughing. 

“Charley, you’re too cool a hand for your time of 
life,” said Tyne. “First you walk us all round a lady 
you don’t know, as if she were a Venus on a pedestal 
in a gallery. Then when you meet ladies you’ve seen 
before, and they are quite as attentive to you as worth 
while, you are bored at the notice they have the kind- 
ness to take of you. ” 

“Well, yes, they are nice girls, easy to get on with, 
and all that.” 

“I should think so; they couldn’t do more, short of 
making downright love to you. How lazy you young 
fellows are I you don’t play your part at all. ” 


YESTERDAY. 


69 


' ‘ Oh, Tm not so clever as you two, and besides every- 
body expects the girls to do the polite nowadays, even 
the girls themselves, Hawk says.” 

“Oh confound Hawk ! Td rather be original,” said 
Tyne. 

“But now, Sundon,” Corbin went on, “don’t you 
think the new one’s a pretty woman.?” 

“Don’t I, though? I hope she means to stay.” 

“What for?” asked Tyne. 

“ WJiy, can’t you see what a beauty she is? you, with 
your first-class eyes ? Are you going to put her in your 
black book on sight? Don’t you now.” 

Harry was always teasing Tyne about these sudden and 
unexpected dislikes which his friend sometimes took to 
strangers; fancies doubly curious in that the people in 
question often turned out to justify them. 

“To begin with, she has a baby-face that promises no 
conversation. One can’t only sit and look at a woman 
all day. Then she studied us rather too openly, yet she 
affected not to be doing it. And her dress was too 
much in the fashion, and — well, if she is a beauty, she is 
a bourgeoise one. She never saw a pair of snuffers or a 
bellows in her life; all gas and furnace-registers in her 
house-keeping; I know the species.” 

“Ah bah ! You’re growling because we lost our sail. 
Your lordship ought to remember there are no bourgeoises 


70 


YESTERDAY. 


in this country; and if there were either, daddyism is just 
bosh in such a case as this.’’ 

“There are plenty of under-bred and ill-bred women, 
Harry; and she is one or the other. I’m sure of it from 
that husband of hers. A fine-grained woman, either sim- 
ple or thoroughly-finished, would never put up with 
him.” 

“He looks as if he might bite if you took away his 
dinner; still I expect he’s a good dog enough. But I 
mean to see more of her. ” 

“Easy enough, I should think; but if I were you, I’d 
leave her to Hawk. He’s likely to find her out.” 

“Poor thing! I wouldn’t for the world. Besides, 
Dan is going into training for another try at the 
heiress. ” 

“Then she’s the one to be sorry for.” 

‘ ‘ By the way, this Mrs. Lang has a good deal of 
color,” put in Corbin; “do you think it’s paint.?” 

“No, only sunburn; I know the difference without an 
eyeglass; but the chances are that in another couple of 
days she’ll be quite too red to please you, or else go 
about done up in so thick a veil that you can’t tell her 
from our cook — ” an old colored woman Tyne had se- 
cured in the beginning of the season, of much special 
talent, but grotesque in her ugliness. “ Prepare yourself, 
Harry.” 


I 


YESTERDA Y. 


7 


“Oh, I never look ahead; that’s the one piece of 
Scripture advice 1 follow. Who has any matches.?” 

That afternoon, Tyne went over to see Grace, without 
either of his friends. She was sitting on the veranda at 
the back of the house, the shadier side at that time of 
day; but not alone, as he often found her; ]\Irs. Lang was 
there, just rising to take leave, with tears in her pretty 
eyes, and promising in affectionate tones to “come often, 
for of course you won’t want to come to the hotel now- 
such a crowd, and you in mourning. ” She delayed a 
while after Tyne’s appearance; he had to be presented, 
and took the opportunity of studying her afresh. As 
soon as she was fairly gone, he exclaimed, ‘ ‘ Grace, where 
did you pick her up.? She seems rather bad style.” 

“You must not be hard on her,” said Grace, smiling. 

‘ ‘ She is too pretty for that, and she has not had so many 
charices of seeing the world as some of us.” 

“Tell me about her.” 

Grace gave him a short history, which may be a little 
expanded here. 

Mrs. Lang’s father had been a certain Christian Brink, 
the vagabond son of a respectable Norwegian merchant, 
wtio after trying in vain to make something of a young 
man with no talent for business and a too great appetite 
for pleasure, packed him off in despair to the United 
States. Young Brink amused himself in New York as 


72 


Y ESTER DA Y. 


long as his funds lasted; then he made a fresh start 
by marrying a young girl with plenty of money, the 
chance acquaintance of a watering-place, — a simple, hum- 
drum, but rather pretty creature, with none of the tastes 
of her suddenly-reached fortune. Her father, after years 
of struggle on a Vermont farm, had tried California, with 
such luck as rarely falls to miners; and Hannah was his 
only heir. Brink spent all her money, made her wretched 
for some years, then died. The widow, with her daugh- 
ter Thyra to bring up and little or nothing to do it on, 
drifted about till at last she settled in Milwaukee. 

Thyra’s first recollections were of pinching poverty, ag- 
gravated by her mother’s dreary way of taking the world. 
Mrs. Brink had found her consolation in a bitter asceti- 
cism. Every pleasure was a sin in her jaundiced eyes. 
This reaction against her husband s rowdy ways of delight- 
ing himself was not strange for her; but it weighed heav- 
ily on a growing girl who had inherited a disposition to 
gayety, to-be not only shut out by narro^Y means from 
great enjoyments, but by a narrow creed from little ones.. 
Her mother saw her nature without sympathy; dreading 
it as something “sinful,” she was doubly hard with her. 
At eighteen, Thyra had never learned to dance, had read 
only a very few novels on the sly (she was not skillful in 
deception, and her attempts that way were sure to end in 
her being found out and punished), and had seen no 


YESTERDA Y. 


73 


public performance more exciting than the tableaux at a 
church fair, in which she was not allowed to take a part, 
though she had begged again and again; but even the 
ministers wife could not persuade Mrs. Brink. 

Notwithstanding, when on Thyra’s eighteenth birthday 
one of these rather dreary entertainments took place, and 
she went to it in an old black dress which did not fit, a 
dashing young man with his arm in a sling, — Captain 
Jack Lang, wounded at Fort Donelson, and taking 
part of his sick-leave for a visit to his uncle, the rich man 
of the congregation, — was presented to her, and the 
whole course of her life was changed. 

Captain Lang had yielded rather unwillingly to his 
aunts proposal that he should escort her that evening; 
but the meeting with Thyra more than repaid him, be 
thought; such a lovely creature, in spite of her unprom- 
ising surroundings! He kept up the acquaintance thus 
begun, and pushed it to the point of an offer, which was 
not made in vain. Having the prospect of a good busi- 
ness position if he should leave the army, and his wound 
bidding fair to keep him from active service for a long 
, time, he resigned his commission, and contenting himself 
with subscribing to the Sanitary Commission and drilling 
a Home Guard, went into business one day and married 
Thyra Brink the next. This last step met with some op- 
position on the part of his uncle and aunt; but Lang was 


74 


YESTERDA Y. 


not dependent on them, and was neither to be checked nor 
crossed. His former officers used to say that this dispo- 
sition was the real cause of his leaving the army; he had 
courage and dash enough, but could not bear to be under 
a superior. 

Lang was very fond of his pretty wife; as for Thyra, 
she was transported, beside herself. After years of pov- 
erty and Sunday-schools, what a deliverance, what a 
new world ! To be head of your own house, with 
money to spend, and somebody actually proud of hav- 
ing you spend it; somebody who wanted you always to 
be well-dressed, and let you read all the new novels, and 
learn to waltz; who liked to go to the theater with you, 
and to take you driving with such a nice horse; it was 
almost too much. To be sure. Jack had his whims, like 
all men, and once he got something into his head, there 
was no turning him off it; but after all he was so kind! 
So too said Mrs. Brink; shocked beyond measure at first 
by her daughter’s suddenly-developed worldliness, she 
submitted to it in consideration of her son-in-law’s treat- 
ment of herself; her father had merely given her money, 
and her husband had taken it from her; but this man 
was really thoughtful of her. In 'fact, Lang liked to 
make people happy; only, it must be in his own way, 
which he was so sure was the best that he would toler- 
ate no other. 


YESTERDAY. 


75 


Mrs. Brink remained in Milwaukee, among her church 
friends. Thyra and her husband went first to Chicago; 
then, as Langs business enlarged, they had removed 
to New York, his native town, where he had always 
wished to return, though his parents’ death had broken 
up his home there in his boyhood. The first cloud in 
Thyra’s sky had risen in consequence of these changes 
of dwelling-place; she had expected that her marriage 
would bring her at once into “the best society,” and 
could not see why there were still regions beyond her, 
wide as she had made her circle. It was partly with 
the end of reaching them that she was renewing her 
acquaintance with Grace; partly also from a genuine 
feeling of liking and gratitude. Three years before, 
Grace and her mother had gone to spend their vaca- 
tion in a quiet nook of the Catskills; and it chanced 
fhat Thyra, advised by her doctor to take her two chil- 
dren into mountain air for the summer, chose the same 
farm boarding-house. Mrs. Brink was to have joined her, 
but failed to do so for some weeks. The younger child 
having one of those sudden touches of illness to which 
children are liable, Mrs. Delahay gave advice and help 
to the alarmed, bewildered mother; while, as this state 
of things lasted several days, and Thyra (who always 
had a good deal of trouble with her servants) was al- 
ready left without a nurse, the girl having departed just 


76 


YESTEIWA Y. 


before, Grace undertook the charge of the elder (an at' 
tractive though rather spoilt little thing), till the vacancy 
could be filled. 

Happening now to hear that Grace was in her neigh- 
borhood, Thyra had sought her out, With an added im- 
pulse of sympathy, from their both having a sorrow to 
bear. If Grace was wearing black for her mother, Thyra’s 
lilac ribbons were the last of her mourning for the chil- 
dren, who had both died together of scarlet fever. “Now 
if they only had lived,” the mother had been saying just 
before Tyne’s entrance, “they would have been just old 
enough for you to begin to teach them, and then I could 
really have done something for you right oif.” It was 
this speech that had brought the tears to the speakers 
eyes. 

“Kindly meant, Grace, to be sure,” said Tyne, when 
he heard of it, “but you may do better yet, I hope.” 

“Now don’t be ‘coming the F. F. over people,’ as 
you used to say,” Grace answered. 

“I don’t mean that, I promise you. I only don't 
want you to go from one unsympathetic house to an- 
other. Mere kindness isn’t good enough for you.” 

“You fanciful cousin!” 


CHAPTER VI. 



S the summer went on, it turned out to be not the 


^ ^ blazing one that some people had prophesied, but 
moderate in heat, and very pleasant when the occasional 
sea-breezes in July became, with the opening of August, 
the regular accompaniment of every afternoon. Tyne’s 
party was constantly on the water. It had lessened in 
number. Hawk had gone to Newport, in hopes to pre- 
vail personally on Emma Minot to reconsider her deci- 
sion, since letters had had no effect on her. Goring was 
shooting and fishing in the Maine woods, successful to 
the point of twice writing a letter of twenty words, like a 
double telegram, one to Tyne and one to Harry, begging 
them to join him. But they and Corbin staid behind, 
and devoted themselves to boating. Not after the regular 
oarsman fashion, though. Even Corbin was hardly ever 
in his shell; he said “the water was too lumpy,” and one 
may believe him; but he certainly preferred a boat that 
would hold Grace Delahay; and Tyne and Harry were 
willing enough to help him row or sail it. 


YESTERDAY. 


78 

Grace was not their only passenger. With Tyne of the 
party, she needed no matron; but she had one in Thyra 
Lang, who was always delighted to go on such trips, and 
was often invited. She had fallen into a way of running 
over continually to see Grace; though they were too dif- 
ferent ever to be real friends, there was a sort of comrade- 
ship between them, to which even Tyne did not saw nay. 
Mrs. Bishop did not approve it, but she too let it go; she 
regarded Thyra as a foolish young woman of inferior so- 
cial position, over whom however Grace might have a 
good influence. As for trying to govern Grace, that was 
impossible; fortunately also it was unnecessary. 

Lang sometimes went on these expeditions, but oftener 
not; not for Mrs. Bishop’s reason, for he was a good sailor, 
but because, though everybody was of course civil to him, 
he somehow found himself one too many. He explained 
this for the present by a theory that the three other men 
were all Grace’s admirers, and that a disinterested fourth 
put them out. This he discussed with his wife, wonder- 
ing which would win, and inclining to ‘‘bet on the 
youngest.” To his surprise, Thyra answered, “What, 
with Mr. Sundon about } ” 

“Oh, he’s only an actor; she’d never look at him,” 
said Lang, disdainfully; he also had prejudices. Thyra 
probably did not share them; for she failed to quote this 
speech when she repeated their conversation to Grace, — 


YF.STERDA Y. 


79 


in a modified form, to be sure, but still with distinct- 
ness enough to cause that lady some annoyance, though 
she did not show it and did not alter her manner towards 
any of her companions in consequence. To be sure, ex- 
cept with Tyne, she was never unreserved. 

Grace's social life was indeed a great effort to her at this 
time; she had to strive hard to enter into what went on 
about her; it seemed very unreal. This self, whether 
listening to the lively talk of the rest of the party, 
or joining in it, was but a reffection in the glass, a 
vain image of that which had gone back into the past with 
the beloved dead, or forward into the future with the 
hopelessly-cherished living friend. She succeeded, how- 
ever, in hiding these moods from every one but Tyne; he 
worried over them, but feared to wound her by seeking 
for the clew to their meaning. The other people only 
thought she showed the occasional depression natural in 
her circumstances, but that on the whole she “bore up 
wonderfully;" so Thyra said. 

Corbin and Harry, however, were alike struck with 
her invariable mental attitude towards themselves. It 
did not seem to be embarrassment or dislike, but they 
had never met a woman before who showed such con- 
stant though unobtrusive caution and care in what she 
said and did in their presence. They had been con- 
scious of this from the beginning, but thought it was 


So 


YESTE/WJy, 


sh)Tiess, and would wear off. They were mistaken; the 
barrier remained, invisible, but strong. So far they might 
come, and it was pleasant to come; up to a certain point 
she was cordial; but never one step beyond. Corbin, 
who grew steadily more interested in her, was greatly 
disturbed by the situation, and longed to put an end 
to it; but he did not quite dare to try. Sometimes he 
thought she suspected his secret, and wished 'to discour- 
age him gently; again he was sure that she was quite 
unconscious. Now he positively believed she preferred 
either Harry or Tyne, both of whom he admired him- 
self, and against either of whom he would have thought 
it hopeless to struggle; now he was confident he had 
nothing to fear from them. Meanwhile, he postfKmed 
any decisive action; the end of the summer would l>e 
time enough; for if she should refuse him, how could 
things go on in the present fashion, one not to be 
lightly given up, bitter-sweet as it was.^ 

As for Harry, his feelings were a puzzle to himself 
What was there about Grace to tease a man so ? He 
could not generalize concerning her, could not mnk 
her under any of the common categories into which 
he divided women; it would have been a real relief to 
him, but she somehow made it impossible. Torment 
him she certainly did, though he was not sure whether 
it was intentional on her part; he was only certain of 


YESTERDA Y. 


8 


the effect. At first he had followed Tyne's lead, and 
endeavored to place himself in his best light before her; 
but after a while — a change, if he had noted it, coin- 
cident with Thyra’s coming, — some perverse spirit pos- 
sessed him in her presence, impelling him to say sharp 
and unpleasant things, to appear defiant and worthless. 
What was 'it.? She was always the same; rarely gay, 
sometimes a little sad, never open or frank, but gentle 
and gracious; not prim, or narrow, or arrogant, or pos- 
itively cold. Still he felt himself repelled by her; and 
before long he began in proportion to be drawn to 
Mrs. Lang. 

Th}Ta’s manner was more than the opposite of Grace’s. 
Tyne was disposed to be severe on it, “A baby who 
blurts out whatever comes into her head ! what business 
has she to be playing the woman .? ” She could indeed 
keep nothing to herself; and her likings and dislikings, 
her tastes and judgments, were no more reasonable than 
a child’s. Fortunately she was easily pleased, or she 
would have made enemies everywhere. She received 
Harry with a frank admiration such as was not new 
to him; at another time he might have treated it a lit- 
tle disdainfully; but now it was very agreeable; in con- 
trast to Grace's coolness (which he began to accuse of 
hiding a contempt he -thought uncalled-for), this pretty 
deference was not too much. If such a charming 


YESTERDAY. 


Sz 


vforaan chose to be so friendly, why should that girl 
be so distant? Grace surely rated herself too high. 
Even her looks were nothing extraordinary. To be 
sure, they had improved with the season; she was no 
longer the convalescent; her hair had grown and her 
color come back; in those black-and-white cambrics 
and muslins she wore (Harry always noticed women’s 
dress) she seemed quite exquisite sometimes, with her 
graceful movements, her ladylike air, and that pretty 
gradual turn of the head when you spoke to her and 
she had been looking another way. But what was 
that to Thyra’s blonde radiance? She too grew more 
handsome as the summer went on. Tyne’s forebod- 
ings about her complexion had proved all wrong; and 
when she did wear a veil, it was thin white grenadine, 
such as was in favor that season, — very' hard for the 
wearer to see through, but very becoming in the eyes 
of whoever saw her. In spite of the defects of her 
face, Thyra was a beauty, Harry declared, and in spite 
of the defects of her character, a chaiTning woman. If 
she did say foolish things sometimes, still Tyne was 
wrong in tliinking her altogether silly. Veiy likely too 
he had changed his mind about that; he did not dis- 
praise her now as he had at first. Nor had Harry found 
Thyra attractive because Tyne did not like her; he was 
not such a fool, he told himself, as to fancy people for 


YESTERDAY. 


83 


contrariness; even such a soft young fellow as Corbin, 
who took his color from whoever he was with, and 
behaved ill or well, according to the company he kept, 
knew better. It was a pity though, if that boy were 
falling in love with Grace; he would certainly be dis- 
appointed. Love didn’t pay, anyhow. Easy mutual 
admiration was much pleasanter, and quite enough for 
a summer holiday. 

So they all drifted on together; when unexpectedly a 
day came after which it was no longer possible for them 
not to understand themselves. 

It • was the first afternoon of September. Lang had 
gone to town on business, and was not expected to re- 
turn till late; Thyra was with Grace on Mrs. Bishops 
veranda. The lady of the house, as usual, had gone to 
visit her friend Mrs. Waldron; instead of her,' Tyne helped 
to represent the family. Harry had come with him; 
Corbin had been there also, but had gone down to the 
beach again, to make sure that the hitherto doubtful 
wind would grow steady enough for sailing. 

Grace had driven her aunt a long round that morning, 
jogging behind the old horse on tiresome enough er- 
rands; then by way of compensation had taken a home- 
ward road through the marshes, where in spite of threat- 
ened wet feet and scratched hands, — as if one had not 
driving gloves and a change of shoes, — she had gathered 


84 


YESTERDAY. 


a sheaf of the rich blooms of late summer; marsh- 
mallows, to other wild-flowers what a Veronese is to othei 
pictures, and pyramid-girandoles of Turkscap lilies, fitly 
called “superb” by the botanists. She had set half-a- 
dozen stems of these last, — each with its triple tiara of 
blossoms whose backward-curling petals of orange shad- 
ing from red to yellow were flecked with dark velvety 
spots, — in a tall blue-and-white Japanese jar, one of the 
old treasures of the house. Now she brought them out 
of the darkened parlor for Thyra to see. ‘ ‘ What a pic- 
ture you make ! ” said Tyne, as she set them on a little 
table. But Harry remarked, 

“Why, Miss Delahay, that is not the bouquet one ex- 
pects from you.” 

“Why not?” said she, smiling. 

“All those gay-colored, spotted, speckled things. I 
thought young ladies disapproved of spotted flowers on 
principle; which of the authorities says so, Mont? You 
know you do my serious reading for me.” 

“Oh, it’s in Hawthorne,” said Tyne; “one of those 
tiresome little bits of symbolism he will tease one with 
sometimes. ” 

“And which mean so much for the ladies. Don’t they. 
Miss Delahay?” 

“ Not for me. I confess I do not care for symbols, and 
I love flowers for their own sakes.” 


YESTERDAY. 


85 


“But don’t you like white flowers best?” said Thyra. 
“Everybody does.” 

“I can’t say I do; I love color too well. But you 
shall have some to take home with you; there are a few 
white pinks and some day-lilies still left in the garden.” 

‘ ‘ Thank you. But how can you not like white flowers 
best? I never heard of such an idea; but there are so 
many new ideas nowadays.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, my fancy is a very old one; savages are fond of 
bright colors, and in that I am a primitive person too. ” 

‘ ‘ I am sure we don’t want to be savages, and I don’t 
think we are,” said Thyra; “but don’t you think gener- 
ally old-fashioned ideas are the best? Don’t you, Mr. 
Tyne?” turning on him, before Grace could answer. 
“I’m sure you will take my side,” laughing a little. 

Thyra had the theory of Tyne which the hotel had 
adopted; that he had been “very fast” abroad, but was a 
“safe man” now, as he intended to settle down and 
marry his cousin. So she was sure of what she could say 
to him. She might have well been; for he looked on her 
as an imprudent child, with whom it was specially shabby 
to trifle. 

‘I’m sorry to contradict you,” he answered, “but I 
can’t. What you call new ideas are really most of them 
as old-fashioned as those savages with whom we won’t let 
Grace class herself.” 


86 


YESTERDAY. 


^‘Dear me,” said Thyra, “ I don’t know just what you 
mean.” 

“And I might shock you too much if I explained. 
This is a pleasant day; I ought to talk of only pleasant 
things.” * 

“But,” Thyra went on, “you know unpleasant things 
will happen in this world, and — and all sorts of improper 
things; and then people always say, ‘ Oh, it wasn’t so 
when we were young; it is all these new ideas about 
religion, and — morality and everything.’” 

“They are mistaken, I assure you. Nothing is more 
ancient than what you call improper.” 

“Would you use a less severe word, Mont.?” asked 
Harry. 

“Would I.?” answered Tyne, drily. 

“Now, Mrs. Waldron, that is your aunt’s friend, Mr. 
Tyne,” said Thyra, “was saying only last week, about — 
well, about that divorce case that was in all the papers, 
‘Such things never happened in my day.’” 

‘ ‘ Clergymen’s wives feel bound to make such speeches, 
I believe. ” 

‘ ‘ I’m sure I’m ready to agree with you, Mrs. Lang, ” 
said Harry; “but if I remember right, Mrs. Waldron 
should be careful how she praises the past; her mother’s 
family had some queer people in it. Doesn’t one of 
your tales of old New York belong to them, Mont.? 


YESTERDA Y. 


87 


He knows everybody’s history, Mrs. Lang; he 

could make a wonderful book of anecdotes, if he chose.” 
don’t care about getting into libel-suits,” said 

Tyne. 

^ ‘ But am I right ? ” 

^‘Yes. The true history of Mrs. Waldron’s aunt, 
Mrs. Dingle, might have happened in the sixteenth 
century. ” 

^^That! oh, it’s hardly uncommon enough. As you 
told it to me, it was only a case of — well, what any 
man may do now, go as far as a woman lets him; and 
why shouldn’t he ? ” 

Oh dear,” said Thyra, rather frightened, suppose 
people think so, but it sounds alarming,” and she looked 
at Grace. 

Grace flushed a little. Forewarned is forearmed,” 
she said, very' quietly, and looking down. But Harry 
felt he had spoken too freely for the time and place. 

^‘Here’s Corbin,” he said turning quickl}^ ^‘We shall 
have our sail after all.” 

“It seems like it,” said Tyne, swallowing something 
very different he had meant to say. “Better by and 
by,” he thought. 

The wind was favorable, and the afternoon perfect for 
their excursion. Harry devoted himself to Thyra when- 
ever he was not wanted to help in managing the boat 


88 


YESTERDAY. 


She had forgotten all about their conversation on shore 
before they were fairly under way; she seemed even more 
frankly charming than usual, and every look from those 
great soft eyes was like a caress. But he saw too that 
Grace was preoccupied and absent, and that Tyne was 
watching him at intervals in an unaccustomed way. He 
felt provoked and pleased at once; the summer quiet was 
turning to excitement with him. When they returned, 
Corbin having left the boat-house door open, Lang had 
come in, and was waiting for them at the top of the steps; 
he not only looked rumpled from his short but warm 
journey, but his black brows were drawn into a heavier 
scowl than even the sun-glare on the Bay accounted for. 
“Dear me,” cried Thyra when she saw him, “how you 
do want shaving, and how hot you are ! You ought 
to have been with us; it’s delightful on the water.” 

“Oh, come along ! ” he answered. “ It’s dinner-time, 
and your friends want to put their boat up.” 

Harry was helping Thyra up the steps, which were 
steep, and a little slippery, as the tide had fallen; but as 
soon as she reached the top, Lang caught her hand and 
fairly pulled her away from her conductor. The two 
men’s eyes met, with a glance from either that each felt 
like a blow; but nothing was said. Thyra called back 
a good-bye to the others in the boat; Lang touched his 
hat to Grace; then they hurried away, though not in time 


YESTERDA Y. 


89 


to escape a satirically-polite bow from Harry, before he 
turned to give his hand to Grace. It was hardly needed, 
for Corbin was with her. Still he had her hand against 
his a minute — and how cold it felt, after Thyra’s, so warm 
and soft! 

Grace walked home with Corbin, almost in silence. 
Sundon staid to’ help Tyne with the boat. 

“ Harry, said Tyne to him, as soon as the others 
were out of hearing, “I need not quarrel with you your- 
self, I’m sure; but if you begin to play Hawk, I shall have 
no patience left with you, and I shall think I did wrong 
to let you keep up your acquaintance with Grace; and 
that’s hard on me, for you and she are the only people 
here I care a copper for.” 

“I know it was too bad of me,” Harry admitted; “but 
somehow your cousin does plague me so; I have no peace 
when she is about — she sets me on edge.” 

“She doesn’t mean it; she — ^well 1 you ought to under- 
stand her, and you will one of these days.” 

“Oh, I dare say,” answered Harry, absently; “but I 
don’t care much for your deep people.” 

“No.?” 

“A woman, now, that is shallow enough to show she 
would rather have you near her than on the other side of 
the room, and if she don’t know anything but how to 
smile, does that for your sake, — I like that.” 


90 


YESTERDA Y. 


“Harr}", you’re too confoundedly sentimental — ” 

‘‘You ought to know — ” 

Here the conversation was unexpectedly broken in 
upon by Mrs. Bishop’s boy-of-all-work scrambling down 
the steps, with a message from that lady, asking her 
nephew to join her at her house directly. 

“ I wonder what’s the matter,” Tyne said, impatiently. 
“Is the boat fast, Harry?” 

“All O. K. Are you coming back to dinner?” 

“I hope so,” hurrying off. When he did return to 
their quarters, he was plainly out of humor. 

“I’m under way for Chicago in half an hour; a trip 
to the tropics I shall find it just now,” he explained. 

“Can’t the old lady go herself? Why need you let 
her send you?” 

“Oh, I’ve some investments there myself that might 
as well be looked after too, though they are not as im- 
portant as hers. Pretty much all she has to live on is 
that property; and her agent has chosen this very time 
to die and leave everything in confusion. She may be 
badly swindled if I don’t see to her affairs now, and I 
will, no matter if all the thermometers in the northwest 
boil over every day for a week.” 

“Well, I’m downright sorry. Come back as soon 
as you can; there’s never half so much fun without 
you.” 


o 


YESTERDA Y. 


91 


Don’t let Corbin burn down the house while I’m 
gone; as for entertaining Grace, I can trust him.” 

“And me. We won’t neglect her.” 

“Now,” thought Tyne, “that sounds well enough; 
shall I say more, tnough.? I’m not easy about our * 
pretty Thyra; but what to do? Speak to Harry? that 
might set him on, for contradiction, in the humor he 
is; besides, I have really no right to — I ! To her? she 
is such a fool. To Lang? To accuse my friend to a 
stranger, and a poor little silly soul to a rough fellow 
like that ? He’d probably beat her and fight Harry, and a 
nice thing I should have done. To Grace, then? Impos- 
sible, impossible! I will wait till I come back, at least.” 


CHAPTER VII. 


O N the day after Tyne’s departure, Corbin also went 
off, on a visit to some friends up the Hudson. 
The next day, therefore, Harry found himself quite 
alone in the house. 

The morning proved a very long one. No wind for 
sailing; too hot for rowing, and even for bathing, with the 
sun beating down so on one’s head. He went over to 
the hotel, but found nothing to do there, and no one he 
cared to see; most of his acquaintances had left, and their 
places were filled up by stupid strangers. A chat over a 
cobbler with Start would have been something, but even 
Start was away for the day. The Langs were invisible; 
Thyra was reported to have disappeared from the beach 
with a headache, and her husband to be taking care of 
her; this information Harry extracted from the stiffest of 
the old ladies, who accompanied it with a look that 
spoke volumes of disapproval. 

He returned to the house, and looked about for a 
novel. There was a stack of them that nearly touched 


YESTERDA Y. 


93 


the ceiling; French and English, Tyne’s selection mainly, 
though Hawk had contributed a few; entertaining things 
enough, but' somehow he could not find one that was 
new; after a dozen pages, he would discover that he re- 
membered it all, and did not care to go over it again. 
This pursuit, however, kept him busy till lunch-time; after 
which, returning to it, his patience was rewarded with a 
couple of volumes he had not read. He went into the 
garden and settled himself comfortably in the hammock 
between two cherry-trees. There were no longer any 
cherries, or even any currants on the bushes within reach, 
to add to the attractions of the place, but he had a cap- 
ital cigar, and the rising sea-breeze swept away all the 
mosquitoes. 

He read on for some time; the book was not very bril- 
liant, but much better than nothing. After a while he 
looked up, and saw the shadows beginning to lengthen; 
by his watch, it was after three. “A good time to go out 
sailing,” he thought, *‘and a good wind. Sailing — with 
Thyra.” (He always called her Thyra to himself, though 
‘ ‘ Mrs. Lang ” scrupulously to other people. ) “I wonder 
if she’d like to go now; I might run over and ask her; 
think I will. Perhaps she wouldn’t though. I haven’t 
seen her to-day, I declare; and yesterday only a few min- 
utes on the beach, and then she seemed put out and 
not like herself. She can’t be angry with me.? We 


94 


YESTERDAY. 


‘ parted friends ’ the day before. • Oh, of course; it’s her 
husband. Why must she have one .? He’s confoundedly 
in the way.” 

Now Harry had quite enough business of his own to 
think of, without such speculation as this. He had had a 
letter from his manager that morning, concerning some 
new plans for the coming season, with an element of 
change and risk in them that was quite inviting; and 
the generally independent Mr. Benson actually had asked 
advice on a point or two, besides. The matter needed 
consideration at once; but first Harry had put it off, while 
the day was so hot; and now — 

The sound of a gate opening not far off roused him 
out of his reverie. He jumped up, and went to his 
own gate to look; he somehow expected to see Thyra, 
and he did; she was just going into Mrs. Bishop’s. She 
did not turn her head or notice him. He waited till 
she was out of his sight; then he followed her. “I 
don’t care who’s there, I must see her again.” He 
had to bite his lips to keep from saying this aloud. 

Thyra had’ had a hard time of it since the sailing party. 
When Lang had left her on a business errand that morn- 
ing, it had not entered his mind to be jealous; but in 
the hot city he met Hawk, who had also come into 
town for a few hours’ attention to affairs, — meaning 


YESTERDAY. 


95 


nevertheless to return to Newport, as the object of his 
trip was still unaccomplished. 

“How are you all, down on the beach.?” Hawk asked. 
“Mrs. Lang as blooming as ever, I’m sure. I thought 
Sundon was getting very civil to her when I came away. 
I suppose Benson must be going to get up some new 
‘adapted French plays' this winter, and Harry is practic- 
ing. He’s always professional before everything.” 

Hawk had no special wish to make mischief; but an 
idea having occurred to him in which, as far as he knew, 
he was the first, he was tempted to express it. The ef- 
fect rather pleased him too. Lang, who already gave 
him credit for great knowledge of human nature, now 
said, with a vain attempt at coolness, “Do you know 
what you’re talking about?” 

Hawk was not moved by the rough form of the ad- 
dress any more than by the evident pain he had given. 

‘ ‘ Why not ? What have I said to offend you ? Of 
course you know you are safe; and I never offer my 
services to people that have no need of them. Good- 
morning; my respects to Mrs. Lang.” And he was gone, 
before bis slower companion could stop him. 

“I wish I’d slapped his face,” was Lang’s first thought, 
looking after the street-car where Hawk had jumped 
aboard; but then followed another idea. “Well, do I 
know ? ” 


96 


YESTERDAY. 


By evening Thyra had heard in full what was on her 
husband’s mind, to her thorough distress; but he would 
not stop; he was not much more discreet than she in the 
matter of talking. The next day it was no better; her 
meeting Harry on the beach was a fresh provocation. At 
last, Thyra, having fallen into making an unspoken series 
of comparisons matching her husband’s denunciations of 
“that actor fellow,” exclaimed, “I don’t believe he’d 
say such things to any woman as you have been saying 
to me, anyhow.” 

“How dare you ” Lang made a step forward with 
his hand lifted, then checked himself, but too late, for her 
burst of tears showed him she had understood. He on 
his part was too much ashamed to apologize; a state of 
mind which does not improve the temper. When the 
second morning came, he insisted she should shut herself 
up in her own room. “I won’t have you setting all the 
people looking at you as they did yesterday.” 

“That’s your own fault, quarreling with me for 
nothing.” 

She really meant what she said; she alone still did 
not appreciate the real state of things; but this unfor- 
tunately Lang did not believe. 

The day dragged on wretchedly, till by and by she said, 
timid and tearful, “At least you might let me go and see 
Grace Delahay; she’s sure to be at home this afternoon. ” 


YRSTRRDA I'. 


97 


“ I don’t want to go out. It’s too hot to make calls.” 

‘‘But you needn’t come, need you.?” 

“ Miss Delahay’s a good enough friend for you; a lady, 
well-connected, quiet; but that vagabond cousin of hers is 
always bringing his pack of scamps about her; how can I 
tell you won't find Sundon over there .? ” 

“ Not now. Mr. Tyne and Mr. Corbin are both away, 
and he never goes to call on her by himself. He don’t 
like her, and I think she don’t like him either.” 

“Shows her good sense. Well, you may go. Come 
back early, that’s all; I want you here at tea. Yes, Grace 
Delahay’s the kind of woman I like you to know. I 
wish she were married, and could matronize you; I don’t 
know but she does already.” 

Lang was so far satisfied, that he did not watch Thyra’s 
going. 

When Thyra asked for “the ladies,” the servant told 
her that both were gone to Mrs. Waldron’s, but that Miss 
Delahay would soon come back. “ I’ll wait for her,” said 
Thyra, feeling as if to return to the hotel at once were im- 
possible. She went into the parlor, which ran through 
the house from front to back; an old-fashioned low-ceiled 
room, dating from Colonial times, with heavy beams over- 
head, and a general effect of a ship’s cabin. • The blinds 
were all closed except those of one long window which 
was also a door, opening on Grace’s favorite veranda. 


98 


YF.STF.KDA V. 


Thyra sat down near it, in a low straw-chair. As soon 
as the servant had gone, she gave a long sigh, almost a 
sob, and pressed her hand to her head. She felt worn out 
with the life she had been leading in these last days. If 
her husband expected her to prefer him before all other 
men, he should not treat her so unkindly. Some did 
not, as she had told him. True, she had not to be any 
one else s wife; and perhaps all men were so to their wives; 
but if it could be different — 

The door-bell rang very sharply. She started and shiv- 
ered. She trembled still more, when through the door 
from the parlor into the hall, which stood wide open, she 
saw and heard Harry Sundon, asking also if the ladies 
were at home, proposing in his turn to wait for IMiss 
Delahay. As he entered the parlor, he pushed away the 
chair which the servant had set against the door to keep 
it open, and it slammed behind him. “What’s that.-^” 
Thyra cried, springing up. 

“Only me, Mrs. Lang,” he said. “There is such a 
draught, I thought it mi^ht be too much for you, but if 
you would rather, I can open the door again.” 

“No, it’s quite right — I’m much obliged — I — ” she 
hardly knew what she was saying. To have him come 
here, and just now! It was dreadful, after all Jack’s talk, 
but — how pleasant his voice was 1 She had not noticed 
it before; voices she was slow to remark, it was her eye 


VRRTRRDAV. 


99 


that was caught first when she observed people. She sat 
down again by the long window; the only light in the 
room fell on her face. Harry sav/ the darkness under 
her eyes, and the dimmed color in her cheeks; it pleased 
him better just then than if she had been in brilliant 
looks. He put himself near her, but a little in the 
shadow; she could not see his features as distinctly as he 
hers, but she noticed how handsome his eyes seemed, 
the gray growing darker and the pupil dilating in the 
half-light, softening the whole expression of his face. 

“ I didn’t see you this morning on the beach,’' he said. 

“No, I had a headache.” 

“You don’t look well, allow me to say. You must 
go sailing with us again; nothing like the air on the water 
for headaches, I assure you. Tyne and Corbin both trust 
me alone with the boat now. If Miss Delahay only 
comes back soon enough, we can try this very’ after- 
noon. ” 

‘ ‘ Did she say she would } ” 

‘ ‘ I haven’t seen her to-day to ask, but I think she 
will.” 

“I should so like it; it would be delightful — but I 
don’t think I can.” 

She was meaning to be cautious, and vex her husband 
no further, Harry saw; and for a moment he himself felt 
an impulse to draw back as she did. To play a part with 


lOO 


YES TEA' DAY. 


unforeseen cues and improvised answers was interesting 
enough; but to-day, in spite of former ventures on dan- 
gerous ground, he was quite beyond his experience; he had 
too often been in company he knew to be bad, but he had 
brought it no recruits. Any diversion from outside might 
even now have changed the course of his destiny; but fate 
is not so fond of watching over those who let themselves 
drift. Another minute, and he was asking Thyra, in his 
softest tones, “Why not? surely it can’t do you any harm, 
such a good sailor as you are.” 

“Oh, no, that’s not it.” 

“Our company, perhaps? We are dull?” 

“No; you are all so kind and so nice, it’s horrid to 
have to give it up.” 

“You don’t mean you never will come with us any 
more at all ? ” 

“I’m afraid so.” 

“Are you going away?” 

“No — not yet.” 

“I see; Mr. Lang is sulky because we didn’t invite 
him last time. Well, he shan’t be left out. I’ll go over 
and ask him.” 

“Oh, no, no, don’t!” She was really frightened, re- 
calling her husband’s mood when she quitted him. 

Harry pretended not to notice, as he went on : “ He 
can’t be offended at being asked, whether he likes sailing 


Y ESTER DA Y. 


lOI 


or not And if he won’t join us, that hasn’t kept you 
away before.” 

“ He don’t want me to go any more without him.” 

“You are sure we can’t persuade him ” 

“Quite. He hates sailing.” 

‘ ‘ And rowing too } ” 

“Yes.” 

“Why.? I didn’t think, after letting you matronize 
Miss Delahay all summer, he would be such a dog-in- 
the-manger now. He can’t be afraid for you, after we 
have brought you safe home so many times, can he ” 

He drew his chair a little nearer hers. She moved a 
little farther from the window. He took up a paper-knife 
from a table beside him, and began to play with it. 

“Take care,” said she, “you’ll break it.” 

“Oh no. But why won’t Mr. Lang trust you with 
us.?” 

“I don’t think he has any reason.” 

“What is the matter then.?” 

“Oh, I don’t know — he’s so unkind lately — he never 
used to be.” She felt that Harry was making her say 
whatever he chose; yet she seemed now to be no longer 
able to help herself. 

“ He ought not to begin now. I wonder at him; who 
could be harsh to you.? But the best of us men are stu- 
pid fellows; I dare say I have annoyed you many a time.” 


102 


YESTERD / F. 


“No, you are always so good to me!” 

She gave a great sigh, and he a sudden violent start 

“Look out!” she cried, “you'll upset that table.” 

“Oh confound the table! Excuse me, but to have 
you seem in so much trouble when — you ought to know 
I would do anything to get you out of it; and then to 
talk about tables ! Don’t now. ” 

' Thyra, having had experience of one lover already, 
could not but understand something from his look and 
tone. She tried to resist them. 

“You can do nothing for me, — not you, — do go 
away. ” 

“How can I sit here and hear you tell me that, dar- 
ling.?” He rose as he spoke; he dropped the paper-knife, 
but jhe did not notice that now. 

“ Don’t ! ” cried foolish Thyra. “ If you had any right 
to call me — but you know you mustn’t.” 

“T know nothing of the kind, and here’s the proof, 
love, and stop me if you will ! ” Before she knew what 
was coming, he bent over her, put his hands on her 
shoulders, and kissed her on both cheeks, on her fore- 
head, on her lips. She did not move or speak; but he 
saw that for the moment she had forgotten everything but 
him, and was willing to forget. 

Just then a little inarticulate cry sounded outside. 
I’hey started apart; Thyra retreated into the room, cov- 


Y ESTER DA Y. 


103 


ering her face; Harry'turned to the long ^^ndow, and saw 
Grace, white and shocked. Her foot was on the sill; she 
could not have been listening, or he should have noticed 
it; she must have come up in that last moment, and ex- 
pecting to meet no one, been at once arrested by what she 
had not thought to see. 

He was cool and on the defensive at once. “INIiss 
Delahay, I owe you an explanation.” This in a tone 
meant to convey: “You are misinterpreting us.” 

“One moment,” said Grace, evidently struggling for 
composure too. She passed him and went to Thyra, to 
his surprise taking her by the hand and speaking very 
gently, as if to a frightened child. “Mrs. Lang, if you 
will go to my room and wait for me, you will not be dis- 
turbed. Mrs. Bishop may be here at any minute.” 

Thyra let herself be led out, not even looking up. 
Grace soon returned, and went out on the veranda; 
Harry, who had stood still where she left him, followed 
her. There was a small table outside with work on it; 
she took her place behind it, and stood looking across it 
at him. In the fuller light, he seemed older and harder 
than she had ever seen him, and his eyes were not soft 
now, as the pupils contracted. Defiant as his face had 
grown, he was plainly no more at ease than herself, in 
spite of their mutual efforts. She waited, but he did not 
open his lips; then she spoke: 


104 


VESTRRDA Y. 


“What have you to say to me? I heard your last 
words — I saw you — it was well you had not some other 
spectator. ” 

“You take great interest in my affairs, Miss Delahay,” 
he answered savagely. “Can I flatter myself you are 
jealous?” 

He had just enough self-possession left to hope that 
this was the real interpretation of her steady coldness to 
him, and to feel that it would give him the advantage. 
But the words were no sooner spoken than he saw that he 
could not have blundered worse. If Grace had been mar- 
ble before, she was white fire now; he dropped his eyes, 
her look was so scorching. “You! ’’she said, between 
her teeth, “you! you! and after the advantage you have 
taken of her coming to see me ! Why have I nothing at 
hand that would kill you quick ! ” 

His anger left him; he felt himself shamed before her; 
he knew he had insulted her beyond bearing, and that 
she deserved very different treatment at his hands. “ For- 
give me ! ” he said. “ How should a man in my case not 
be beside himself? You speak of her; well, she, both of 
us, are in your power; what will you do with us, with 
her?” 

“What can I do, indeed?” she said, more calmly, 
but still so sternly that he feared she suspected him 
of double-dealing. “I will not be your accomplice, 


Y ESTER DA Y. 


105 


nor would I be Mr. Lang’s spy; but you give me no 
better choice.” 

“Surely, between two women, and neither hard- 
hearted, there must be some other way.” 

“Not with you on the spot. All depends on you. 
If you really love Thyra, have some pity on her; do 
not disgrace her, for your mother’s sake, if you re- 
member one. ” 

“If I do.^ You should have named some other 
name to me than that. The woman that neglected 
her own child from his birth, and forsook him for the 
sake of a lawless love — there's a recollection to appeal 
to now ! If I am my mother’s son, why then, for all 
I hate the thought of her, it’s natural enough I should 
follow her way. That’s not what you mean to ask of 
me ! ” 

He expected to see Grace flash into fresh anger, as 
his own excitement paused enough to let him reflect 
Instead, her voice had a pitying tone at first, though it 
hardened as she went on. “That helps to explain you 
then; I have been prepared for what you are, ever since 
your speech of the other day, and now I see why you 
are so. Your place is to be Mr. Hawk’s companion; 
he will not find himself alone in his circle.” 

“ The other day.^ I declare I was only teasing you 
then. I d.dn’t expect myself that matters would ever 


io6 


YRSTEKDA Y. 


go on so far as they have now. And what do you 
know of Hawk, that you class me with him ” 

“ He used to say such things too, to tease me too, 
I suppose. And I think my cousin Mont knows more 
of him, that he would not tell and I would not hear. ” 

“Well, leaving out details, what does Mont say of 
Hawk on the whole. ^ Dan is no friend of mine, any 
more t'lan of his.” 

“He called -him ‘a thorough scoundrel, a man without 
a heart, false to the core,’ only three days past.” 

“Does Mont call me so.^ Am I so.^ Think over 
what Mont says of me, look me in the face, and tell 
me if I deserve all that.” 

She did look at him, so long and searchingly that he 
could hardly bear it; but under his pleading gaze, her 
own softened a little. She remembered now that when 
she had first met Hawk, she had once turned and looked 
so into his eyes, as he sat talking to her; she wanted then 
to feel the reason of the repulsion towards him which had 
seized on her from the beginning, she not having evi- 
dence against him at the moment which could make 
it clear to herself. Those eyes had shown no shrink- 
ing from her inspection; how should they, when they 
were so shallow.? One seemed to come up against a 
blank wall there; for all the man’s personal beauty, they 
were unbeautilul; for all his intelligence, empty; no vi- 


YESTERDAY. 


' 107 

'lality in them, no soul behind them. On the contrary 
Harry’s were deep and full of life; half-a-dozen different 
feelings were trying now to find expression in them; noth- 
ing was clear in his mind, and every emotion so strong, 
that no single one could give first place, to any other. 

“No,” Grace said slowly; “Mont must be right; you 
were not worthless after all. But what does that help 
now .? When you have gone so far as you have to-day, 
how shall any one move you to take a step back } ” 

Harry was surprised at her despairing tone; he had ex- 
pected a cool moral lecture from a very distant plane, and 
this comprehension of the force of the situation touched 
him somehow. 

“ If Thyra only says the word, the whole thing can be 
at an end,” he said. “There’s no great harm done yet, 
I assure you; believe me ! Only let her send me away.” 

Grace bit her lips, trier’ to keep silent, had to speak. 
“Do you know her no better than that.? She never 
will, she cannot. She is not bad of herself, but you 
have mastered her entirely.” 

Unconsciously his face brightened. 

“Oh, how can you!” cried Grace, reading his look. 
“Think what this is to come to. You know she can 
keep nothing to herself; her husband will find her out, 
and next the whole world, and then — ” 

“Well.'” 


io8 


VESTERDA F. 


“I thought love meant two people should make each 
other happy, or else one give up happiness that the other 
should be more secure. You only bring wretchedness 
where there was peace before; and if this goes on, ruin; 
and after, such men as you think yourselves free to for- 
sake a woman — it’s horribly unfair ! ” 

Was this Grace, with the tear-filled eyes and quick, 
passionate, uncertain utterance.? 

“You think too hardly of me, on my word you do ! ” 
Harry answered. “If Thyra were really mine, I would 
never throw her off, I would never even let her go.” 

“But since she is not, it is not forsaking her to leave 
her.” 

“You think I ought to.?” 

“Yes, and now, and at once.” 

“I can’t do it.” 

“Then what becomes of her.? I cannot say it again.” 

“You might as well ask me to cut my own throat as to 
go. She loves me.” 

“I would rather die than harm anything I loved.” 

‘ ‘ I declare, I believe you mean what you say. Well 
— tell me just what you want me to do.” 

“To leave this place at once, and keep aw'ay from it 
while she is here; to avoid meeting her, seeing her, hear- 
ing of her, as long as her husband lives; and not to think 
of any way to shorten his life.” 


YF.STEfWA K 


109 


“You ask a great deal; you’ve no idea how much ! ” 

“An easy thing is not worth asking of a man of 
honor. ” 

“Do you think I’ll do it.?” 

“I cannot tell.” 

“You don’t say ‘forget her.’” 

“No; I know some things are impossible all at once. 
But what I tell you is not impossible, only very hard.” 

“You shall not say it was too hard for me. I will go.” 

Her face lighted up, and she put out her hand to him. 
“I bid you good-speed.” 

“Only just let me see her first. One minute.” 

Her face darkened. “If you do you will stay. I 
promise you to be gentle to her; but you must not see 
her. ” 

“All or nothing! Nothing then. Good-bye. If it 
were not for you, I could not have done this. When 
you see Mont, tell him so, and he’ll excuse me for leav- 
ing the house without a care-taker. But be kind to 
Thyra.” 

“Believe me, I will.” 

‘ ‘ Good-bye. ” 

Grace watched him till he was out of sight, then went 
upstairs. Thyra lay on the bed with her face in the pil- 
low; she sprang up as Grace entered, and cried out, 
“Have you sent him away.?” 


I lO 


YESTERDA Y. 


“Yes.” 

“Oh how could you.?” 

“How could I not.?” 

“ I don’t know what I shall do. I can’t live without 
him, and I mustn’t have him anywhere near me, and I 
can’t die.” 

“She is the greatest fool I ever .saw,” thought Grace; 
but she said very gently, stroking Thyra’s hair, “You 
acknowledge you must have parted, and it is over now.” 

“ He won’t come back ! He left no word for me ! ” 

“You know he ought not to have.” 

“What shall I do.^ I’m left all alone.” 

“ You alone .? ” Grace could hardly kept her voice from 
sounding bitter, thinking of her own loveless-seeming lot. 
“Not you; you have your mother and your husband.” 

“My mother! You don’t know her. She’s coming 
on to-morrow, and 1 wish she would stay away; she’s so 
religious, she never likes anybody to have a bit of fun even. 
And Jack will tell her all he thinks, — he’s guessed every- 
thing, — and I shall get nothing but lectures and scoldings. 
He that used to be so kind 1 Now he says, if I don’t be- 
have better, he’ll send me home with her when she goes, 
and he won’t have anything more to do with me; and 
then I shall die.” 

“He cannot mean that in earnest; surely you can make 
him forgive you, if you try. I am sure he really loves 


VESTRRDA V. 


1 1 1 


you better than any one else can, and for the sake of 
that—" 

“Oh, don’t! I must be a wicked woman, but — " 
Thyra s voice failed her; she began to sob inarticulately, 
and shed floods of tears. Grace could quiet her more 
easily, now 'she ceased lamenting in words; still it was a 
long time before she was fit to go back to the hotel. Left 
to herself, Grace was but little calmer. The shock of 
coming face to face with such passions was terrible to her; 
the . firm, world she had thought she knew seemed to 
quiver and break under her feet. She was not sure 
whether she could believe Harry, in spite of his declara- 
tions; a saying of Tyne’s concerning him, “ It’s a pity he 
is so much a man of impulse," rang in her ears. In those 
first moments, she was ready to distrust any one; even her 
faith in Felix was disturbed. Not till the morrow did she 
recover herself, when she learned Harry had really gone 
at once, starting for Maine to join Goring. 

That personage was for the moment astonished when 
Harry walked into his quarters, saying, “Have you any 
room, old fellow.? I’ve come to stay if you have." Still 
nothing in the way of pleasing one’s self surprised the 
banker long. “Devilish glad to see you, Harry. I’m 
just left all alone; Blood and Stout went off this morning; 
but I’m not ready to fry myself down town agaiii yet. 
What’s all this talk about California.? There was a long- 


YESTERDA Y. 


1 1 2 

ish paragraph in the last Herald I had. Is Benson broke } 
I know he lost money in the spring, in spite of you.’' 

“Not so bad as that; but he thinks a new audience 
would be good for us.” 

“When are you off.?” 

“ I don’t know yet; but he’s given me time enough 
to see how you’re getting on.” 

“I wish you’d brought Monty Tyne too. But now, 
Harry, how could you leave Mrs. Lang.? Hawk wrote 
me you were having it all your own way in that quarter. 
He always tops off his business letters with some new's, 
and—” 

“ A very wise question for you, when you see me here. 
Do I go where I don’t like in vacation, my dear fellow.^ 
Dan’s head is always running on the petticoats; I’m bored 
to death with him, I want to hear something else. What 
luck did you have to-day .? tell ahead. ” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


'^YNE found himself kept in Chicago for ten days 
by Mrs. Bishop’s affairs and his own; both were 
in a sufficiently involved condition to annoy him a good 
deal at first; the more that notwithstanding he told him- 
self, “You could do little enough if you were there,” he 
was anxious to return to Long Island. 

After a while he had news from his friends which 
s emed to contradict his forebodings. Grace’s hoped-for 
chance of something to do had come to her at last. She 
wrote that she had accepted the place of governess to the 
little daughter of her own father’s trusted friend. Major Ro- 
maine, of the regular army. The Major was at Fort Ham- 
ilton now, having just returned from a short foreign trip 
with his family; though he would probably be ordered to 
some far Western post before long. This last informa- 
tion did not please Tyne, who knew nothing of the 
West beyond Chicago, and had distrustful views as to 
its distant regions. “Still with the Major and his wife, 
she can't be badly treated,” he summed up. 


II4 


YESTERDAY. 


There had also been a letter from Harry, with the 
full history of Benson's plans, which, if they were suc- 
cessful, would take the company as far as Australia. It 
ended: 

“Now don’t plague yourself any longer with thinking 
me a doubtful admirer of a woman you can’t bear. We 
shall not quarrel for that, since the whole thing is over 
^nd done with, and no one the worse. I’ll tell you more 
when we meet, if you care to know; and all considered, 
it’s best you should. I hope we shall part, friends, — but 
on my word I shall be sorry to part at all, believe me.” 

“I ought to be content with that, for the present at 
least,” thought Tyne. 

By degrees his business grew easier to settle, till almost 
before he knew it everything was done. Still he was 
impatient to be off; Harry had written again, only a few 
lines, but saying he should be at the Blanque Hotel in 
New York by the time when Tyne expected to come back. 

Arriving in town one bright morning, Tyne went at 
once to the Blanque, where he had engaged a room, 
meaning to be in town while Harry was. On inquiring 
for his friend, the clerk answered, to his surprise, “Mr. 
Sundon hasn't been near here, sir,” in a tone which im- 
plied, “And you might have known better than to ex- 
pect him;” while two bystanders, one of whom was 
unfolding some newspaper more well-known than well 


Y ESTER DA Y. 


15 


thought of, gave each other a sly look. “But there’s a 
letter for you,” added the clerk, bringing out one ad- 
dressed in Harry’s hand; a yellow envelope without even 
a postmark, the stamp being cancelled by two pen-strokes, 
after the fashion of small up-country post-offices. Harry 
was not over-fanciful about stationary, but such an in- 
formal-looking missive as this that the clerk seemed tid- 
ing to read by clairvoyance while he slowly let it pass 
from his hands to those which had the right to open it, 
had not been written in town. “Delayed in coming 
from Maine, that’s all,” Tyne thought; still the curiosity 
of the people about him suggested he knew not \vhat 
of unpleasant. He went to his room to solve the puz- 
zle unobserved; but before he had time to look into the 
letter, there was a knock at his door, and Corbin entered, 
in an unusually melancholy and discomposed state. 

“Goring said you might be here,” he began, “and 
I came to say I’m not going back to our house. It 
don’t make any difference, I suppose; our time’s nearly 
up, isn’t it? but I thought it was more civil to tell you 
myself, and — ” He stopped, as if he had something 
more to add that he found it hard to speak of. 

“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Tyne. “Anything 
I can help you about ? ” 

“Nobody can help, and everything’s the matter. You 
may as well know it. I tried to write, and I couldn’t; 


Y ESTER DA Y. 


1 16 

I came back, and spoke for myself, — and your cousin 
wouldn’t have me. She was very kind — but it’s no use.” 

“I was afraid you hadn’t much chance; but I’m very 
sorry, indeed I am.” 

“It must be you she cares for; such a wonderful girl 
can’t but love somebody; and it can’t be Sundon; if it 
was, I swear I’d shoot him.” 

“Come now! he has as good a right as I, or any one — ” 

“Good God! You don’t know what he’s been about 
then.” 

‘ ‘ What are you saying .? ” 

“Why, he’s gone off with Mrs. Lang.” 

“That’s not true ! d’hat’s a damned lie ! Who told you 
that } I know you would never make up such a story. ” 

“Goring says so, and Hawk, and Lang himself, and 
her own mother, and everybody.” 

“It’s impossible. Why, Sundon wrote me there was 
nothing between them — To be sure that was a week 
ago—” 

Tyne tore open the letter he had just been given, and 
read (not aloud), in Harry’s own writing; 

“ Dear Mont, — I have to take back what I wrote you last week; 
Thyra Lang is with me now. I can understand too well what your 
cousin must think; but she is wrong; I intended nothing of the kind 
up to the moment I came back to town. If you don’t want to show 
that you believe me a liar, come down and let me speak for myself.” 


YESTERDAY. 


17 


There was more, but Tyne could not read on; the 
letter fell from his hand. “What your cousin must 
think!” there was a blow indeed. “Charley,” he said, 
“your news is too true.” 

Corbin looked more disturbed than ever; was Grace 
concerned, after all, that Tyne should be so excited } 

“I wish it was a lie,” he said, “but you see yourself. 
Everybody is talking about it; raking up what he said 
one day, and she said another; how he used to hold 
her hand when he helped her out of the boat,^you know 
that time we had been across to Neversink, and Hawk 
came down to the dock to see us in, just before he 
went to Newport .? I never would have thought of any- 
thing then — ” 

“Nor anybody else.” 

“But Hawk makes a regular story of it, I can tell 
you. Then how she and her husband quarreled the 
last days, how wretched she looked when she left Start s, 
and I don’t remember what all.” 

“Don’t tell me what they say; tell me what you know.” 

“That’ll be only second hand, as it is. Day-before 
yesterday evening I got back from up river, and the 
first thing I saw was Goring walking on the beach smok- 
ing. ‘ What’s the news with you, youngster .? ’ he calls 
out. ‘Nothing,’ said I; ‘and you.?’ ‘Oh, plenty! 
we’ve finished up our summer with a sensation, we 


ii8 


YESTEKDA 1’. 


have.’ Then he let his cigar go out, and gave me 
his story. It seems Sundon and he had come down 
from Maine together; the weather turned so bad, Gor- 
ing said, they got sick of living under Niagara. Well, 
it’s a troublesome journey, connections hard to make; 
still they got into town about noon, and were meaning 
to lunch somewhere before Goring went to our house; 
for Sundon said he must stay in New York. They 
weren’t five steps out of the station though before Sun- 
don said he’d left his cigar-case in the cars, the one you 
gave him, and he was going in again to look for it. So 
Goring walked on, but Sundon didn’t catch up; after a 
while he turned and went back for him, all the way to 
the station at last; but Sundon wasn’t there either, and 
Goring’s never seen him since. Instead there was a little 
old lady asking all the world what had become of her 
daughter. The two ladies were going by some north- 
ward-bound train that there was a rush for, and a great 
crowd in the doorway. The old lady had pushed through 
and thought the other was following her close, till she 
got fairly into the cars, when she looked round, and 
nobody there. She hunted all through the train till it 
left, thinking her daughter was in some other car; but 
as she couldn’t find her, she let the train go off, and 
began searching round the station; when Goring hap- 
pened on her, she was talking to the station-master. 


YESTERDA Y. 


I19 

^ Was she a little girl, did you say, ma’am ? ’ he said. 
‘Oh, gracious, no, a woman grown;’ and she described 
her; Mrs. Lang, to an eyelash. The railroad people had 
had their own business to mind, and had seen nothing; 
but while they were promising to do all they could, Gor- 
ing blurts out, — ^you know his way when anything hap- 
pens of a sudden, how it stampedes him sometimes, — 
‘Good Lord, then that’s what Sundon left me alone 
for ! ’ 

“So friendly of him, to let the whole world know that 
something was wrong.” 

‘ ‘ I think Goring was rather sorry he spoke, for at that 
the old lady turned right on him, like a wild-cat, he said, 
and she cried out, ‘ Mr. Sundon ! what do you know 
about Mr. Sundon?" ‘Only that I expected to find him 
here, and I don’t’ At that she looked ready to faint, 
but she gave herself a kind of shake, and stiffened 
up like a frozen thing. She walked to the telegraph 
window, and sent off a message; then out of the station. 
Across the street there was a man that keeps an apple- 
stand, touching up his stock with a feather-duster in the 
intervals of trade. She stopped and looked at him till 
he asked her if she wanted anything. ‘ Did you see such 
a gentleman and lady pass by five or ten minutes ago ? ’ 

“ ‘Yes, ma’am; they took a hack and drove off, going 
up town, I think.’ Then she went one way, and Goring 


20 


YESTEKDA K 


; nother, for he didn’t want to be asked any more ques- 
tions. But when he got to his own train he saw her 
two seats in front of him. She never came near him 
again, though.” 

“'I'hats all.?” 

“Not quite. He began to make, a joke of the affair, 
and say how deep Sundon had been, how he’d bluffed 
him off every time he asked a question when they were 
up there in INIaine, and how cleverly it must have been 
planned from the first, only at the end rather too quick 
work. Then I got mad, and told him Sundon wasn’t 
that kind of man at all, that he might lose his head and 
go wrong, but he wouldn't lay traps weeks and months 
beforehand. ” 

“Good for you.” 

“Then Goring laughed and told me I was ‘the freshest 
he ever saw’; so I found it was no use talking, and I w'ent 
off to see your cousin, and get the taste of the thing out 
of my mouth. As I was let in, the little old lady came 

out; and Miss Delahay looked as if she’d been crying. 

♦ 

And then I must go and bother her ! ” 

“Oh, never mind that. But what could have brought 
IVIrs. Lang’s mother to Start’s again .? ” 

“I suppose she was a stranger to New York, and didn’t 
know where to go. But what Lang came back for is 
plain enough; he's getting his witnesses and his counsel. 


Y ESTER DA Y. 


I2I 


You'll hear nothing else all over the beach, or in our 
house. Hawk came yesterday morning, and he and Gor- 
ing are running each other about 'our case’ all the time; 
— well, I may be as ‘ fresh ’ as they choose, but I don’t 
see now where the laugh comes in.” 

“Nor I.” 

“I suppose they’re on Lang's side, in their own way; 
and I know everybody else is. Of course Lang’s got the 
right of it, too. Still I don’t like a man that’s ready to 
roast a woman over a slow fire when he catches her; no 
matter what, I don’t. And he’ll do what comes to the 
same thing; he’s engaged Hawk as his lawyer.” 

“The devil he has! You’ve heard Dan in court.? It's 
worse than vitriol-throwing.” 

“That’s so. And Sundon was such a capital fellow — 
But why couldn’t he let that woman alone ? And Hawk 
said to me, ‘You’ll testify for us, my boy; you were on 
those sailing parties.’ I. daren’t refuse, for that would 
look worse than anything; and thank goodness, he can’t 
get much out of me, for I don’t know a thing but what 
I’ve been told. Only they mean to have lots of witnesses 
and no end of row.” 

“Yes; Hawk wants his turn to thrill an audience; he 
means to bring down the house too; and he takes such an 
appropriate part, as avenger of society ! ” 

“It does seem out of keeping; I never heard his 


122 


YESTERDAY. 


match for fast-and-loose talk; — ^yet what has he ever 
done, though ? ” 

“Enough, I dare say.” 

“ But the worst is, he drawled out this morning, just as 
I was leaving, ‘ Miss Delahay’s evidence will be just what 
we want. ’ ” 

“He shan’t have it!” 

“Can you stop him.?” 

“I rather think so.” 

“Fd thank you for that, I would ! As for me, when 
he’s ready, he may send after me.” 

‘ ‘ Where are you going .? ” 

“ I don't know. Goring says I may take another ten 
days, if I like; — he’s guessed about your cousin, and he 
means to be kind, but I wish he’d let me alone ! — but I 
can’t tell where to go.” 

“Where are your mother and sisters this summer.?” 

“Up in Catskill, at a dead-and-alive boarding house; I 
couldn’t stand that.” 

“Why should you, or they either? Can’t you afford 
to give them a lark ? ” 

“ Of course I can; but mother’s so quiet.” 

“She’ll like it for your sisters’ sake; and she knows they 
ought to be properly matronized, and not run wild. Your 
party will do you credit too; your ladies are all pretty.” 

“You really think they look — well — stylish?” 


YESTERDAY. 


123 


- “ They couldn’t be more presentable, my dear fellow.” 

“You have such ideas! Well, I’ll do it; and now I 
won’t be bothering you any more.” 

Left to himself, Tyne took up Harry’s letter, and 
read on: 

“ It’s too long a story to write. I’ll explain when I see you. 

I must ask you to help me out a bit, on Thyra’s account; if I 

make the least move, it may give the other side a chance to get 
at her, and I can’t have her meddled with, nor is Lang a man 
for half-measures. I prefer to show no fight, and make as quiet 

settlement as possible; but we want a divorce, and we meair 

to have it. If you can tell Lang that, so much the tetter; I 

rather think he is of the same mind. We are at the old Craft 
house, that you showed me the way to last year; the caretakers 
are boarding us — incog, of course. If you can’t come yourself, 
report the enemy’s moves by letter, that’s a good fellow. I 
never meant to humbug you, or your cousin; the whole thing 
has teen a chapter of accidents. Yours, H. S.” 

“Now, is that all true.?” thought Tyne. “Well, to 
work 1 I’ll find out what I can to-day, and see him 
to-morrow', — and quarrel with him for good and all, 
very likely 1 It may very likely be best for Grace if I 
do what he asks; but on my soul, if it wasn’t for that, 
I’d leave him to himself for daring to bring her name 
into such a business 1 ” 

The journey to Long Island seemed endless. At last 
he found himself at Mrs. Bishop’s door. He walked in 


24 


YESTERDA Y. 


unannounced, and discovered that lady and Lang in ear- 
nest conversation. 

“ That s just it, ma’am,” Lang was saying. “I should 
think Miss Delahay might be willing to appear on my 
side.” 

“My niece in a divorce case! I won't hear of it. 
Besides, what can she. know about it? Monteith, is 
that you.? Tell Mr. Lang it’s not to be thought of, 
that he should come here for witnesses.” 

“Why not, ma’am.? Why not, Mr. Tyne Miss 
Delahay was a trifle in my wife’s confidence, if I’m 
not mistaken.” 

“How dare you insinuate any such thing.?” cried 
Mrs. Bishop. 

“If you mean to say my cousin was a party to the 
affair — ” began Tyne, fiercely. 

“Nothing of the sort! ” interrupted Lang, in the same 
tone. “Can’t you see I know better.? Of course she 
was given to understand either that there was nothing, 
or that it was all over; she’s been working for me, and 
thought she did some good; and though it was no use, 
I thank her for it; but all the same, since she’s been 
made a blind of, I should think she’d jump at the chance 
of showing it was against her will. I’m sure they’ve 
treated her badly enough. Is she in the house, Mrs. 
Bishop .? ” 


YESTERDAY. 


25 


*‘No, and you shouldn't see her if she* was. You 
may go and ask the servant-girls what they spied out; 
they are very clever at watching what happens beyond 
-the kitchen; but if you were a gentleman, you would 
not think for a moment of entangling her in such an 
affair. " 

“Aunt," said Tyne, “a blunder is not a crime in 
Mr. Lang's circumstances; why should you insult him so.^" 

“My niece knows," Mrs. Bishop continued, “that a 
lady takes no notice when anything improper is going on; 
even if, young as Grace is, she can suspect such conduct. 

I will not have her disturbed." 

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bishop; but I've engaged a lawyer, 
and of course I must follow his advice. He told me 
.she would be a valuable witness. I thought though it 
-would be more civil to see her or you myself than to 
send him over, or surprise her with a subpoena." 

“ Monteith,” said Mrs. Bishop, “do you talk to this, 
.person; you know him, and it is not a proper business for 
a lady." 

With that she stalked out of the room, in all the d'g- 
nitv of her height; she was within an inch of six feet, and 
neither age uor care had made her stoop yet. 

“Yes, that’s better,” said Lang; “it’s embarrassing to 
her of course; but she's mighty touchy, if she is your 


aunt. 


26 


YESTERDAY. 


“ Only couldn’t you leave my cousin m peace? You 
must have other witnesses enough. Who is this lawyer 
of yours ? ” 

“ Hawk. He gave me the first hint anything was go- 
ing wrong; and you know how smart he is — ” 

“And how cruel. Are you really going to put your 
wife at the mercy of his tongue ? ” 

‘ ‘ Why not ? What has she done to me ? And what 
has Sundon done to me ? Of course you don’t see it so; 
Hawk says you’re tarred with the same brush.” . 

‘ ‘ Oh, does he ? ” . 

“I suppose you think there’s nothing out of the com- 
mon against your friend, or that she had a right to throw 
me over if a more fascinating fellow came along — ” 

“If I did, I would have showed you the door before 
this. I don’t deny Sundon has wronged you; and I im- 
agine you’ve been quite as agreeable a husband as Madam 
Thyra deserves; but for all that I advise you to make a 
peaceable settlement of the matter; it can be arranged 
quietly, if you choose, I’m sure.” 

“Do they.?.” 

“Yes.” 

“Then I don’t. I’ll make them pay. for it, damn 
th:m ! First I meant to shoot them both; no jury would 
hang me for that; then I saw it would disgrace them more 
to show them up to the public.” ; 


YF.STRRDAY. 


27 


“They’ve been imprudent enough to give you the 
chance ? ” 

“Perfectly brazen. They’ve nothing to plead. We 
can prove that your friend has been attentive to my wife 
all summer; that she confessed her preference for him; 
that the last any one saw of them was in each other’s 
company; and that the moment before he had made 
an excuse to return to the place where she was to be 
found; as if they had an understanding.” 

‘ ‘ They had not. ” 

“And now they are in hiding, no one knows where, — 
unless you.” 

“And it’s you, is it, that tells me all this.?” 

“Why not.? Td tell the whole world if I could get it 
together. ” 

“You run the chance of making yourself a public 
laughing-stock, if you proclaim your case so openly.” 

“All very well for you to think so; but no decent man 
will find my affair ridiculous. I’ll tell you that. Such 
treachery is no joke on this side the water. A woman’' 
that I’ve done everything for — I have a right to punish 
her if she plays me false. I mean to have a complete and 
open divorce, and to let the whole world know what she 
is; I’ll be free of her for ever, and it shan’t be easy for her 
in the doing; I don't care if you think me a fool or a 
savage. ” 


128 


YRSTERDA Y. 


^‘I never saw the woman less worth losing one s head 
for, if that’s any pleasure for you to hear: but 1 pity her 
in Hawk’s hands; and I can’t have my cousin brought 
into the matter, still less if he conducts it; why couldn't 
you have had some other lawyer, at least ? ” 

“ Is he really so hard a man? But how can I change 
now? It’s all settled; I can’t; no more than I can have 
my wife back again. Will he say more than is fair, do 
you think ? ” 

“I know him.” 

“She’s a woman, after all; and there was a time — but 
what should I tell you that for? you wouldn’t under- 
stand.” 

“Why not, as well as Hawk?” 

“Oh, he don’t either. He's a man of business, straight 
through. I wish I was.” 

“All the better if you’re not.” 

“You think so? I wonder if — Look here; she did 
love me once. I’ll swear she did; what’s changed her? 
There wasn’t a sweeter or a better girl this side the Pacific 
the day she married me; no, nor for years after; not till 
we came here. She can’t have changed of herself — I’ve 
been too hard on her, maybe. She’s never been the same 
since we lost those children; it upset her so — The truth 
of it is, I think she’s going mad; there’s insanity some- 
where in the family, I believe. I ought to have seen 


y/iSTEA'D.^ V. 


29 


that. It’s too late now; to try and get her in an asylum 
would be only making things worse, since they’re where 
they are; but if that’s so, your way, of settling up the 
case quietly, would be best; only I couldn’t get Hawk 
to see that, I suppose.” 

“Let me try. I think I could manage, without his 
even knowing you had had a word to say.” 

“Do. Do what you choose. I’ll trust you to get it 
right. And tell your ladies they’ve nothing to be afraid 
of; here’s my hand on that; and, on my word, I don’t 
care what Hawk says of you. I’m sure you’re an honester 
man than he is.’’ 

It flashed through Tyne’s mind how contemptuously 
he had spoken of Lang to Harry once; and he felt very 
weary of himself, in this world where words cannot be 
unsaid or deeds undone. 


CHAPTER IX. 



\’'NE found Hawk and Goring fishing on the dock; 


J- they had not caught much, but were laughing loud 
together. 

“ Hallo, Mont ! ” Goring hailed him; “have you heard 
our news ? ” 

“Everything except what luck Hawk had at Newport,” 
Tyne answered, coming close. “ There’s a spiteful little 
rumor that Miss Emma wouldn’t change her mind; but 
it was only Sam Longbow, — ‘Divide-by-three Sam,’ — 
told me.” 

“ Well, this once it’s true,” said Hawk; “but so much 
the better for me; she and her money have gone off since 
spring. She looks like a chills-and-fever patient, and the 
family bank account is next to overdrawn.” 

“Stuff! ” Goring put in. “You can’t fool Mont with 
any sour grapes, don’t you know.? The Minots are as 
solid as a rock; but Emma’s going to marry a navy man.” 

“Yes,” said Hawk,, “an ugly little fortune-hunting 
monkey of a lieutenant-commander. They’ll find each 


VRSTRRDA V. 


131 

has taken the other in, anyway; ” a prophecy which 
proved entirely false. 

“Dan must make his million in his own line,'' said 
Goring. “This case of Lang's ought to give you a 
pretty good lift, my boy; whoever pays the costs, at 
least you'll do yourself credit. I’m a little sorry though 
it's Sundon you're going to turn inside out; you skin 
a poor devil pretty clean, once you set to work; and 
he’s such a good fellow when he isn’t spoiling for a 
fight ! " 

“We never were great friends, and all’s fair for one’s 
own side,” Hawk answered carelessly. 

“After all,” said Goring, “the trial will be a capital 
advertisement for Harry.” 

“Sundon never does his own advertising,” Tyne re- 
plied; “that’s in Benson’s part of the contract.” 

“Well, but what do you want, Mont.?” said Hawk. 
“ I know you’re not here for nothing. I can tell you 
half of it to begin with, I believe; if you’ve set your heart 
on that cousin of yours, — she’s a pretty creature, after all, 
and you can afford a love-match without making a fool of 
yourself, — you’ll please her by dropping Sundon. I met 
her yesterday, and tried her with a word on the subject; 
and if she wasn’t fierce ! ‘ Too false to speak of and too 

bad to think of,’ she said. What a witness she’ll 
make, yes, and you too!” 


132 


YESTFJWA y. 


“You hold your tongue about her, and come with 
me,” answered Tyne. “I’d like to consult you, par- 
ticularly.” 

“Tell us your joke afterwards, if he’ll let you, Dan,” 
Goring called after them. He had to wait longer than he 
expected before Hawk returned, which he did alone, and, 
in spite of himself, with an air that made Goring say, 
“ Hallo.? what has Mont done to you.? This is the first 
time I ever saw you with your comb cut, fighting-cock 
as you are.” 

“What should he do.? But I must go and talk to 
Lang; I’ve no time to waste here.” 

“Well, but will you get IMont into your show.^” 

“There’ll be no show. The thing’s to be patched up 
before a judge in chambers, and you and the newspaper 
reporters may just go farther if you want any excitement.” 

“Mont’s a spoilsport. Where’s he gone to now.?” 

“To see his aunt, like a good boy.” 

“ Mighty queer he should be so attentive to her, when 
he’s got the money. But that’s the trouble with him; he’s 
not like other people, and you never know beforehand 
what he’ll do. To be sure, the pretty cousin — Hi ! 
I’m talking to the air. Hawk might have said he was 
gone.” 

Tyne meanwhile had returned to Mrs. Bishop. 

“What have you settled.?” she asked. 


VESTEA'DA Y. 


133 


“We shall have it our own way, I think. .Where’s 
Grace ? ” 

“At the Romaines’. Mrs. Romaine came for her this 
morning, and she is to spend the night. Do you want to 
see her } ” 

“Not just now. Don’t let her be worried. I will 
come again, when everything is arranged, — to-morrow or 
next day, — and tell her all myself.” 

“ Don’t do anything imprudent, Monteith; we mustn’t 
make talk.” 

“Not I.” 

That evening, Tyne received in New York a telegram 
from Hawk, in one word, “Agreed.” With it came 
also a thick letter, bearing a foreign stamp; for hours he 
sat reading over and considering this, and it was far into 
the night before he rested from, his new study. Notwith- 
standing, he rose betimes, and left town early next morn- 
ing, by a railroad which before long brought him to a 
little junction in a New Jersey clearing. Instead of wait- 
ing two hours for the connection train, which after all 
would not have taken him direct to his destination, he 
struck off at' once on foot through the thick woods, trust- 
ing to a memory which he soon- found did not fail him. 
Harry and he — to what purpose they had not foreseen 
■ — had amused themselves by exploring this country the 
summer before; and every nook of it seemed familiar to 


134 


YESTEIWA K 


him yet. He met no one on the lonely roads but an oc- 
casional countryman in a wagon, who always offered a 
lift and was greatly surprised at its being declined. That 
region, now full of hotels and summer boarders, was then 
almost unknown; the great overflow-tide from New York 
had not begun to break upon it. 

The day was superb; bright as June, fresh as October, 
the air cleared by the influence of a sea-storm, which how- 
ever had not come to shore in rain. It was a pleasure to 
be walking through woods and fields, except for his er- 
rand and the thoughts which that raised up to accompany 
him. He was thrown back by them afresh into his own 
history, always a torment to him. It was no use to tell 
himself that he had been deceived too, that no one lived 
to accuse him or to make claims on him (the countess 
was how dead), that the world had forgotten the affair; he 
could not forget, because he could not forgive himself. 
The worse he thought of the countess, the worse it was 
that he should have been a sharer in all. her treacheries ex- 
cept the last; and he was not so sure now that without 
him she would have entered on her path, still less that 
she had been the first of them both to set foot in it. 
There was no denying that he had laid his own burden 
on himself; and he found no way of getting free from it 
any more. 

Then his friend ! Harry had at least taken a more 


YESTERDAY. 


135 


open course, broken short with deceptions; but the case 
was the same after all, and had begun too ill to come to 
good. To put himself on a level with such fellows as 
Goring and his set, whom nobody could trust, not even 
one another, — Goring’s very financial standing was only 
good because it was a matter of self-preservation with him, 
and if he had been the founder of the banking-house in- 
stead of merely succeeding his father in it, his credit 
might have suffered — and for the sake of a silly, worthless 
woman — that she should turn a man false who had been 
fair-dealing and frank above others ! Then besides — But 
here Tyne determined not to judge till he knew. 

The sun was past noon when he came out of a wood of 
oaks, with holly for underbrush along the faint cart-track; 
this led to a grove of cedars, some spreading as the sassa- 
frases, already autumn-touched, which crowded in and dis- 
puted the ground with them, others tall and spiry as Ital- 
ian cypresses. It was but a narrow and thin belt, after all, 
letting in the sky to reflect itself in tiny pools that united 
to send a brook trickling beachward. In a few moments, 
Tyne saw the long dark-blue line of the Atlantic horizon 
between the stems; a step farther, and he was out of the 
trees, in a little grassy space, just across which a broken 
fence inclosed a weedy plot of land, where stood the 
house whither he was bound. 

An old sea-captain, who had made money and retired, 


yp:STERDA Y. 


136 

had built this dwelling years before; it was deserted, for 
after his death his heirs had preferred to live in less sol- 
itary places. Since that time, it has been burnt down; 
but then it was as Captain Craft had left it: large, spread- 
ing, with rooms each side the front door; of few stories, 
with a shingled roof ’sloping up to a square lookout on 
top; a broad veranda, rather high from the ground, ran 
all round it below. Placed just on the edge of the beach, 
it looked like a stranded ship which some great storm 
might yet float off. All the front blinds were tightly 
closed, and the only sign of life was a thin thread of 
smoke from the^ kitchen chimney. 

Tyne found the front door ajar when he had mounted 
the steps. He pushed it open softly, and stood in a large 
empty hall, narrowed a little on one side by the stairs, 
and running through the house. The back door was 
wide open, and he saw framed in it the hpaving sea 
and the foam-flashes on the breakers; the rolling surf, 
and his own footsteps on the bare boards, were the only 
sounds he heard. He reached the farther door without 
meeting a creature; but the moment his foot touched the 
sill, Harry Sundon, sitting smoking outside on the ve- 
randa, rose up and confronted him, with an anxious, 
listenmg look, which changed at once to one of such 
entire satisfaction that lyne, thinking of Grace, had hard 
work not to start back. 


VF.STRKDA Y. 


137 


“IVIont, I didn’t expect you. I was just thinking I 
should have to tramp over to the village and see if you’d 
written; the old man’s horse is worse than anybody’s legs, 
and for all that the post-office is a longish pull to get 
at. When did you leave town.? — So early.? You look 
half-stirved. We’ve had our dinner, but I think there’s 
something left in the house.” 

He went indoors, and returned in a few minutes, in 
con>pany with a dried-up and not over-intelligent-looking 
old woman, who set out a small table on the veranda 
with cold meat and hot potatoes, stared curiously at 
Tyne, and departed again. 

“There now, that’s the best I can do,” said Harry. 
“We won’t talk business till you’ve finished. I’m not 
sure,” dropping his voice, “ but the old people mightn’t 
hear more than was good for them through the cracks 
of the doors and between the boards; so we’ll have our 
consultation on the top of the house by and by.” 

“What do you. tell them you are here for.?” 

“1.^ nothing; only asked for shelter and paid in ad- 
vance; they are not so clever but what I could parry 
their questions, and they* were afraid to lose their lodgers 
if they asked too many. I believe though they take us to 
be either counterfeiters or insane; anyhow they let us 
alone and don’t talk. They don’t remember me because 
they’re not the same people who were here before; those 


38 


YESTERDAY. 


are dead, I believe. We aren’t troubled \vith society; the 
sea is the only neighbor, — no bad third on a fine 
day.” 

He looked waterwards as he spoke; Tyne’s eyes fol- 
lowed his. The steps of the veranda on this side led 
down to a short board walk, ending at a gate between 
two tumble-down little shanties, a boathouse and a bathing- 
house, that watched the long gray beach meet patiently 
the whole force of the open ocean, three mighty mingling 
lines of breaker. Clear and still as the air was, the waves, 
bringing news of the fiercer weather that had raged far 
out, came heaving and crashing in, towering higher, it 
seemed, than the house that one hardly believed beyond 
their grasp; they sank into sheets of foam behind one 
another; they rose up again out of those white valleys, 
in blue-green walls made translucent by the sun; they 
curled over, broke, fell with a great roar on the sand, 
then slid back softly hissing in creamy films, to re-form 
their heavy ranks and break again. Nothing else; not 
a sail flecking the pale pure blue of the horizon-line; 
not a keel to cut the waters that purpled under the 
shadows of the few long drifting clouds. Tyne felt the 
simple splendor of the day to be sadly out of keeping 
with his errand: Harry only said, 

“ I declare, I can hardly hear you for the surf; it’s regu- 
lar artillery practice.” 


YESTERDA V. 


39 


“I didn’t say anything. Shall we go upstairs.? IVe 
had dinner enough.” , 

The house looked still more bare and desolate within 
than without; the only sign of life was one that Tyne was 
disposed to take amiss. As they passed through a long 
upper hall, a door opened, and as if startled by their foot- 
steps Thyra peeped timidly out; but when she saw who it 
was, she smiled, and shut the door again. “Confound 
her, how can she show now.?” Tyne thought. 

By a steep narrow stairs, — not an easy climb for the old 
captain if he grew fat in his later years, — they came into 
the lookout, open, railed about, and roofed over. 

“A famous place this in Craft’s day,” said Harry; “he 
must have seen every vessel that crossed or coasted. It’s 
not always so empty out there as it is now; sometimes 
there’s a regular fleet of all kinds, sail and steam, and I 
wish the old fellow’s spyglass had gone with the house, 
not been carried away with him. Take the other chair; 
that’s the rickety one; none of the furniture is very steady 
on its pins, anyhow. We must talk business, I suppose, 
though I feel anything but ready; I’ve been so well out of 
the world these last days ! ” 

“Harry, I do believe — ” 

“Well?” Tyne had stopped short, looking not only 
grave, but hurt. “I thought, since you came, you had 
no quarrel with me, or you’d have staid away — Oh I 


140 


Y ESTER DA Y. 


know; you have your own misfortunes on your mind, and 
•you don’t want to see me in the same boat. But, my 
dear fellow, there’s no danger. I’m perfectly safe; Thyra 
can’t deceive anybody, not even herself; and she’s en- 
tirely devoted to me.” 

‘‘It’s not that I was thinking of.” 

“What then.? Out with it.” 

“No. It’s not my place. I thought once you were 
more of a man than myself, not only such another; but 
since things are so, what right have I to be talking.?” 

“I don’t believe you understand exactly. Tell me just 
what you mean, and let me set you right. That’s what 
one friend ought to do for another. You’ll never make 
me a sermon, I know; and I promise not to lose my tem- 
per, no matter what you fancied.” 

“Well then, if you want to he«r me, you shall. What 
do you expect to do for the rest of your life .? I under- 
stand Thyra well enough; and I know she will never 
be false to you. But you will get tired of her; she’s only 
a child in her nature and intelligence, while you are full- 
grown; and she’ll never develop into a companion for 
you. ” 

“Oh, you don’t know her. Besides, one can’t find 
everything in any one person; why need she be clever, 
when she’s charming already .? ” 

“But when you come to find 'nothing in her, what 


YESTERDA Y. 


141 

then? She will still cling to you, — and one day it may 
be the hardest work of your life to be kind to the wo- 
man that you are mad for now, that you’ve stolen away 
and made false, played a shabby trick to win — ” 

“Mont, that’s too much!” 

“ I told you I should go too far, once I began.” 

“Well, what next? I can’t go back now, if I would.” 

“No, it’s too late. You must keep what you have.” 

“No need for you to tell me that — to be sure, I asked 
you. Well ? ” 

“I can’t believe you mean to desert her in the end, 
she’s such a hdplesi thing; she never would have gone 
wrong but for you, and you owe her everything you can 
give her, for you have made her lose everything she had 
before — ” 

“Desert her! That I don’t. Nobody could that 
kn w what she was. You’ll change your mind about 
her et; and as for me, I mean to marry her as soon as 
Lang gives her the chance. I’ve committed myself to that, 
□oth by word, and in writing; not that there was any need 
of it, but it happened so. If you want more proof than 
iny word, ask your cousin Grace for my letter to her.” 

“You wrote her one about this?” 

“I did; it wasn’t easy, with Thyra looking over my 
shoulder, and it was an impudent thing. I’m afraid, 
though I assure you I didn’t begin it with ‘ circumstances 


142 


YESTERDAY. 


over which I had no control; ’ still there were reasons why 
it had to be written, as I mean to tell you, for I see you 
don't know, and -you ought to.” 

‘ ‘ Poor Grace ! Why have you brought her into this } 
How could you She too — I ought to have kept you 
two apart; I shall never forgive myself ! ” 

“Good God ! Mont, you are all wrong. Do you really 
imagine I have been flirting with your cousin, and 
touched her heart ? ” 

“I hoped she might touch yours.” 

“You thought of that as a possible match.?” 

“On my word, 1 did, ever since I saw you first 
together. ” 

“You are not an aristocrat, after all. I’m sorry to pull 
down your castle in the air; but set your heart at rest; 
she and I never pleased each other. I found nothing 
in her of what I do in you.” 

“ I only wish you had. I thought I knew you, and I be- 
lieved that you could make her happy if you cared to. I 
knew her, and saw she was a woman who would last, and 
only be more thoroughly lovable as time went on; like 
her mother when her hair grew gray. You two I really 
trusted, and could have trusted you with each other. 
She was afraid of you, to be sure; but I thought you 
would win her over, and find it no less worth the do- 
ing because it would have been easy. Instead, you 


VESl'RRDA r. 


143 


must throw yourself away on a woman not worth tak- 
ing, even if you could have had her honestly — 

“1 tell you, you are wrong there, and altogether.” 

“ Well, I’ll say no more about Thyra now and for ever; 
but Grace ? ” 

“She never could have loved me: we were too differ- 
ent; and she must worse than hate me now. I deserve 
it partly; I have broken my word to her, and I am 
afraid she thinks I never meant to keep it. I’ve been 
insolent and unsteady; but I haven't been intentionally 
false, and we never have been lovers. Since she has 
told you nothing, I will; and you may blame me as 
much as you like.” 

Tyne listened anxiously, while Harry, with growing 
embarrassment, unfolded his story. At the point where 
the question of Grace’s possible jealousy was raised, the 
listener sprang to his feet with an oath. 

“You dared to say that.? I swear I’ll throw you off 
the roof into the sea when you get done.” 

“Once Thyra is taken care of, you may call me to 
account any way you please,” answered Harry, steadily. 
“I know I couldn’t have done worse; I behaved like a 
beast, and I felt it then. And Grace treated me very 
generously. Poor thing ! I can see her now, making 
herself speak, and the words seeming to burn her lips, 
and her eyes burning mine.” 


144 


VF.S TEKDA Y. 


“And after that? Go on, do.” 

Harry recounted the rest of the conversation. “So 
I did leave, and went into the woods to forget the 
whole thing; but I couldn’t; that was a wretched t’rae; 
I hate to think of it now. Still I meant to stay quiet 
in town anyway. I never expected to meet Thyra. But 
when I chanced on her, drawing back because there was 
such a crowd, and alone, as I thought, — well, I made her 
come with me. Now you can wash your hands of me, 
since I’ve proved myself not a man of my word.” 

“No. I’ll stand by you. I have already, though it 
w'as really on Grace’s account. You see. Hawk .is Lang’s 
counsel; "and he planned to distinguish himself at every- 
body else’s expense by making a great case — ” 

“ Lang’s an unsuspected genius to choose him. When 
Hawk’s on one side, he makes the other infamous and 
ridiculous both at once. He’s a born torturer. I can 
stand my own share; but Thyra ! And if he called your 
cousin as a witness ! Mont, can’t we do something ? I 
owe it to both of them to keep them out of his hands 
somehow. He’s not over-fond of you, and she — ” 

“It’s done. ^I have made him give us easy terms; 
Grace escapes altogether, and everything is to be settled 
with as little publicity as possible. I know enough about 
Hawk to ruin him, as I’ll tell you later; it’s a long story. 
He hates me for that, but though he’s as false as hell, this 


YESTERDA V. 


145 


time he must do as he agrees, or it might mean state-prison. 
At the time I first found him out, — not a month ago, — I 
wasn’t sure that he was the man, or that it mightn’t all be 
a black-mailing trick of his accusers; they were strangers to 
me, and I came across them by the merest chance. But 
I found they were honest when I risked throwing it in his 
teeth. How the shot told ! You’ve no idea how he lost 
his fighting-cock airs all at once; he fairly crawled. Bah ! 
it’s disgusting to see a fellow such a coward.” 

“But did he suspect how much your cousin knew.?” 

“He supposed she might have noticed some telling 
trifle; but nothing to the purpose.” 

“You made a hit there. I believe it would almost kill 
her to give her evidence. Do you mean to show up 
Hawk on his own account afterwards.?” 

“No; I hate the whole thing. I’m not an informer, and 
besides it’s too late, to right their wrongs. If they want 
to revenge themselves, they may do it in their own time, 
without me. I’ve secured all I want. Now I’ll see you 
to the end of your afkiir, on one condition.” 

“What’s that.? But anything you like; I’m in your 
debt, if ever man was. ” 

“Only that Grace’s name is never mentioned between 
us any more.” 

“Oh, but, my dear fellow! I must know whether she 
believes what I wrote her or not. I don’t want her to 


146 


VESTEA’DAV. 


think worse of me than I am; she is too like you after all 
for me to stand that. Ask her for the letter; make 
her every apology you can; no excuses though, for there 
are none possible from me to her.” 

“Well, if she listens to me, I will tell you. Otherwise, 
I had better say nothing about it.” 

‘ ‘ I suppose so. Anyhow, you’re only too good a 
friend. ” 

‘ ‘ Perhaps; but I haven’t the impudence to lend a hand 
to society in punishing you.” 

“Society’s not so much better than I am, that it should 
have the right.” 

“You may help yourself with that, I suppose, after all, 
— if you can.” 

“Hasn’t it helped you.?” 

“No.” 

“I wonder what you would think if the countess had 
treated you better.” 

“Ask yourself that in ten years’ time.” 

“But won’t Hawk play you some dirty trick by way of 
return for your defense of me.?” 

“He’s too well frightened; besides I shall be out of his 
reach abroad. _ I’m going to Europe to look after my 
nephew Tony.” 

“Who on earth is he.? I’m sure I never heard of 
him before.” 


YRSTERDA V. 


47 


^‘Why, I had a sister Mary once, and we were fond 
of each other too; but she would marry. My brother- 
in-law, John Waveney, was a good fellow in his way, 
only it was a crotchety, impracticable one. He was a 
mining engineer, and might have done very well if he 
had stuck to that; but he strayed off into inventions 
which never could be made to work, and talked Mary 
over in throwing away her money on them. I objected 
to that last proceeding; so we quarreled; she took his 
side, and that parted us. She’s dead this seven years, 
poor thing ! Tony was their only child. I liked the 
little fellow; but after his mother’s death Waveney would 
never let me see him. To be sure, for a good while I 
wasn’t the best of company; still, what harm would I 
have done such a baby.? He can’t be more than eigh- 
teen even now. In two years Waveney married again, 
picking up the most insignificant little creature possible 
for his second wife; then he went abroad to economize, 
and ended by dying of consumption last March. As 
soon as I heard he hadn’t long to live, I wrote and 
offered to take care of Tony; The answer was a flat 
refusal, with an assurance that the boy was fully pro- 
vided for. But now Mrs. Waveney sends me an in- 
coherent jumble of woes in the form of a letter from 
Germany. I gather from it that her husband was mis- 
informed concerning my character, which later and truer 


148 


YESTERDAY. 


reports, ‘and especially the very kind and gentlemanly 
letter preser\Td among poor John’s papers,’ show to be 
no bad one; that she is left quite destitute, with three 
children of her own to bring up; that her relations may 
be expected to help them, but of course have no inter- 
est in her step-son; and that Tony is at a German School 
of Mines, very unhappy and discontented, and without a 
whole suit of clothes or a decent pair of shoes; therefore, 
if I would reconsider — So I have business cut out for 
me, and must try not to blunder it. Once you go West, 
I’m off for the other side.” 

• “You’re always helping on somebody.” 

“Badly enough. I’m afraid. This time I must do 
my best; he shan’t turn out as good-for-nothing as I 
am, whatever happens. But to finish with your aflairs 
first — Oh, I must tell you; Benson is very much dis- 
turbed. He came to see me last night, in a suspicious 
frame of mind, evidently trying to find out if I thought 
you likely to give him the slip. ‘ What for does he get 
himself into such a scrape just now.? But he never was 
the least bit of a practical • man. ’ Then with a burst of 
confidence, of a deep design of making an impression 
on your feelings through me, ‘I can’t do without him; 
if he goes back on me, I may as well shut up shop.’” 

“ He has had experiences, poor fellow; but so have I; 
and we shan’t give each other any new ones, I think.” 


YESTERDAY. 


149 


They talked together for some time longer; at last 
Tyne said, “I must be off/' 

“Can you get back to town to-night?” 

“Yes, and I must. Good-bye; you shall hear from 


me soon. 


CHAPTER X. 


RACE was on the watch for Tyne the morning after 



his conversation with Harry; Mrs. Bishop had no- 
tified her that her cousin had something to tell. The 
elder lady lingered a few minutes in the little parlor after 
Tyne’s arrival; but as in her presence the others avoided 
the subject which she knew they meant to speak of, she 
withdrew. Of course, she assured herself, she should 
hear the whole from Grace afterwards; though it must 
be owned her niece had hitherto refused to discuss the 
affair with her. 

As she went out, Tyne drew nearer Grace, studying 
her looks anxiously. 

“When can you show me Sundon’s letter.?” he began. 

‘ ‘ I have it here. What has he told you .? The truth, 
I wonder.? As I understand the matter, there is not a 
falser man to be found. What excuses does he make .? ” 

“ He bid me tell you he had none; only apologies to 


, you. 


“And what to the Langs.?” 


YESTERDAY. 


51 


“Grace, can you not give me your own story?” 

“I do so hate it; but I must have your advice; nobody 
else can help me, for who else could understand?” “Un- 
less,” she mentally added, “one to whom I could not 
apply, even were he here.” 

‘ ‘ Or if you choose, only tell me what happened after 
Sundon left; he has made no secret to me of the way he 
behaved to you, and upon my word, he is very thor- 
oughly ashamed of that. If he was not, I shouldn’t have 
a word to say to you about it.” 

“You believe him?'” 

“Yes, I do! and I think you will in the end. But 
now, what follows?” 

“ Once he had gone, I think Mr. Lang and Mrs. Brink 
were to blame. They frightened Thyra so between them, 
her mother threatening her with the next world, and her 
husband with this, that I thought she would lose her rea- 
son; if indeed she has any, which I am not sure of” 

“Why, Lang said as much himself” 

“Poor man, if he had believed that sooner! I spoke 
at last to the mother; but she did not take it in good part. 
‘Oh, she knows well enough; she’s as sly as a cat, and 
as smart.’ Such a mistake ! I never myself saw so open 
and so weak a creature; it is a cowardly thing of a man 
to mislead any one so defenseless.” 

“You are speaking of my friend, Grace.” 


52 


YESTERDA Y. 


‘ ‘ Why need he be your friend any longer ? 

“Well, what else?” 

“She really tried to forget, poor thing. She would 
come over and sit with me, bring her work, and talk of the 
people at the hotel, or her husband s plans for next year; 
but after a while she would put me questions as to what 
had become of such a woman who had had a scandal in 
her life, or what I believed would happen to such a one 
after death; then she would break down and cry. Still I 
hoped the matter would wear itself out, when unluckily 
]\Ir. Lang had to go to Baltimore on business; Mrs. Brink 
thought so hot a journey — it was in those two or three 
sudden sunstroke days we had — would be too much for 
Thyra, but that she must have change of air now notwith- 
standing. So those two started for the White Mountains 
together, Mr. Lang, who left here the day before, plan- 
ning to join them later. Thyra herself did not know 
what was to come of the trip, I am sure. She did not 
want to go.” 

“Then how can you suspect Sundon as you do?” 

“He must have been on the look-out for her.” 

“In Maine! Or do you suppose he had any way of 
communication with her?” 

“Nothing could have reached her; she was too closely 
watched. But it was no use. Mrs. Brink returned quite 
beside herself, and I had to comfort her as best I 


YESTERDA Y. 


153 


could — that is, to listen to her sorrow, for there was no 
hope to give. Soon after, this letter came.” 

She took it from her work-basket and handed it to 
him, watching his face while he read. 

“ Dear Miss Delah-ay, — You probably have heard that I have 
failed to keep my promise to you; but you must not believe that 
I intended or planned to fail; I had no such thought when we 
parted. Though circumstances proved at last too strong for me, 
yet I shall not yet entirely break my word. I told you I should 
not forsake Thyra if she were mine; and I will not; your hearing 
of her as Mrs. Sundon is only a question of time. 

“ I have no words to tell you how I regret my conduct towards 
you, and if your cousin Mont thinks it requires severe notice, I 
shall not dispute his judgment, and am ready to meet it. But 
I assure you that if you wish to seem ignorant of this affair of 
mine, I shall do my utmost to second you in that. As far as it 
depends on me, your name shall not Ido brought before the pub- 
lic. Please show this to Mont; he will take any steps you re- 
quire, 1 am sure. Yours truly, 

“Harry Sundon.” 

“Well, Grace,” said Tyne, “what more can we expect, 
under the circumstances.*^” 

“Does it please you .** I thought it was too absurd. 
He knows I should not ask you to fight a duel, or to 
knock him down in the street. But I ought to be very 
much obliged to him because he is afraid to call me as 
a witness, ought not I.**” 


154 


YF.STERDA K 


“Don’t be so bitter. You have not seen him since. 
I have. He is only telling the truth when he says he 
meant to keep his word. He really would have, but 
for a perfectly accidental meeting; and if he failed in 
the main point, you see he will still be as honest as 
he can in the present state of the case.” 

“I am not sure that that makes it any better. It 
leaves him still with a debt to Mr. Lang that he can 
never settle, — yes, and to Thyra too.” 

“At least do not think he was deceiving you at first. 
He has quite enough to repent of without your charging 
him with that.” 

“You know men, I believe. But what am I to do 
with my information.? I feel as if either to speak or 
be silent was treacherous.” 

“You have a right to silence, Grace; )^u can tell 
nothing that is not already known to others; there are 
plenty of witnesses without you; and I have settled that 
you shall not be called.” 

“ Dear Mont ! you have saved me a hard trial indeed.” 

“Now for that, promise me that you will believe what 
I tell you of Sundon.” 

“I could easier think you were taken in by his clever 
acting. ” 

“I understand him too well for that. He is only 
too much himself off the boards.” 


YESTERDAY. 


155 


If you could say he repented at all — but he is 
not that kind of man. And that being so, why do 
you still stand by him ? ” 

“Grace, I think you know no more of my life than 
the outline everybody has heard, and certainly I do 
not mean to tell you more; but I feel myself to have 
been a worse man than he — ” 

“Once, perhaps, but not to-day. Now, you might 
surely make yourself free of him.” 

“He has no hold on me unless I choose. I might 
leave him to himself, except that it would be too unjust of 
me, and at this time of all others; so I will not.” 

“Does he think you approve of him.?” 

“No, for I told him the contrary, more frankly, I am 
afraid, than was fair on my part. And he does feel 
ashamed of his behavior towards you.” 

“And towards Thyra he thinks he is not to blame.? 
He looks on that as an everyday matter.? He says he 
loves her, yet his love makes him only the more willing 
to disgrace her, and that before the world ? ” 

“There will not be a public trial, Grace.” 

“But the public will know the result and visit it on 
her. You are strange creatures, you men; I would 
rather put half the world between any one I loved and 
me than bring that one so low.” 

“Yes, you haven’t any idea what love is, good or bad — 


56 


VESTF.KDA V. 


what a power, what a force, to draw and compel two dis- 
tant people to the same place, two strangers to intimacy, 
two quiet souls to extremes, two hot ones to one fire. You 
have been sister and friend to me, but whom have you ever 
loved.? I don’t blame you for refusing Corbin; he was 
not enough of a man for you; but you’re just as cool to 
everybody. I should like you once to feel your heart 
beat quick for some one’s coming and going — Why ! 
Am I wrong.? I did not know, dear, believe me ! You 
have kept your secret only too well.” 

Grace, overtaxed and worn with emotion and recollec- 
tion, had burst into tears; those bitter tears that are no 
relief, only added pain. 

“I meant no one ever should know!” she said. 

“Why not.? No love you can feel would be anything 
but honor to you and the man. Don’t make yourself 
wretched by distrusting him either; every one has not so 
much against him as Sundon and I; some are better than 
others, believe me, and you are keen-sighted enough to 
know which.” 

“,Yes, I am sure. The other day, when the very sky 
seemed to fall on me, I could not tell; but now I 
can. ” 

“At all events, you go with the Romaines?” 

“Yes, and I am very glad to. They have always been 
such good friends to me. Little Helen has rather grown 


YESTERDAY. 


157 


out of my knowledge, but she is prettier and fonder of me 
than ever; and once we are settled in Texas — ” 

‘ ‘ Why, I hoped, now the Major’s leave was up, they 
were coming back to Fort Hamilton for good. What 
does he mean by carrying you off into the wilderness ” 

‘ ‘ He is ordered to San Antonio, which people say is a 
pleasant post; and since Mrs. Romaine has come in for 
her great-uncle’s money, they will be able to live very 
comfortably. ” 

“It seems as if you were going to the moon, ”to me.” 

“Why, when you are abroad, what difference does it 
make where I am on this side .? ” 

“Unless it should separate you from your lover.” 

“ Mine ! that is too much to say. I know he cannot 
care for me; he is as far from me in his thoughts as in 
miles and hours.” 

“ He will love you yet, Grace, I am sure, if you only let 
him. Do I know him.?'” 

“ Hush, aunt is coming back, she must not hear. All 
we have said to-day must be between ourselves.” 

“Now,” thought Tyne, “who is it? Belden, perhaps. 
Does he deserve her love, I wonder ? I might set Harr)^ 
to finding out about him in San Francisco — No. We 
had best not meddle with Grace’s affairs; she understands 
them, and they ought to be left sacred to her.” 

That evening Tyne received a note, requesting him to 


158 


YESTERDAY. 


come to a certain number in a street where he was not in 
the habit of visiting; “ Hannah Brink” was the signature. 
In a forlorn little parlor he found Thyra’s mother, who 
seemed the more to be pitied that her appearance in no 
way reminded one of her daughter. He would gladly 
have given her some of his own composure; the stiff man- 
ner with which she armed herself was plainly a feeble de- 
fense against her own agitation. 

“Mr. Tyne, I am informed you are in Mr. Sundon’s 
confidence,” she began. 

“That is quite true, Mrs. Brink.” 

“Of course then you can tell me what he intends in 
regard to my daughter.” 

“He means to marry her as soon as she is divorced 
from her present husband.” 

“Why, Mr. Hawk assured me that he certainly would 
not do that.” 

“Mr. Hawk knows nothing of his plans; I know them 
all.” 

“I thought that possible, so I took the liberty of 
sending for you. Would you kindly wait a moment.?” 

She was gone some time. When she returned, she 
began again, “You may not know, Mr. Tyne, that it 
is difficult to find a minister who will perform a mar- 
riage ceremony under such circumstances.” 

‘ ‘ There are other legal means — ” 


YRSTF.RD / Y. 


159 


“But, Mr. Tyne! In all probability this is the last 

shall have to do with my daughter in this world; but 
. if she marries, her marriage must be — she paused for 
a word— ‘ ‘ sanctihed. 

“Impossible in this case,'"' Tyne thought, “whatever 
you do, poor woman ! ” 

“I know of a minister,” Mrs. Brink went on, “who 
was under obligations to my father, and is willing to dis- 
charge them by obliging me. Only he does not feel at 
liberty to have it very generally known.” 

“We will be as discreet as you please. Now as to 
time and place 

“When the divorce is granted, I will fix an evening 
and let you know. This is the house; I am visiting the 
ministers wife, who is an old friend of mine. But not 
a syllable, I beg of you, to any one not concerned. 
Mr. Lang thinks I have renounced my daughter alto- 
gether; and he is right. He leaves New York soon; I 
shall go with him and keep house for him wherever he 
settles; we are alone in the world, and he is not likely 
to marry again. But first I must do this. A mother 
owes her children some things, even when they are lost.” 

“1 understand.” Looking at that worn face, Tyne 
felt bitter against Thyra; yet at the same time he thought, 
“If she means to cast her daughter off, why should she 
stop first for a matter of form } If I were Thyra, I would 


6o 


YKSJ'F.RDA Y. 


be content with what the law can do; this is Jiot a last 
blessing, but a farewell curse, that her mother gives.” 

Thyra however did not see it so. In due time, there- 
fore, the dreary wedding party met. The minister’s wife, 
the only unconcerned person present, was so deaf that she 
could not hear a word that passed; and as no e.'tplanation 
was given her, and she did not remember Thyra, not 
having seen her since babyhood, supposed that some 
entire strangers had happened in to be married quietly. 
Mrs. Brink’s cold and formal reception of her daughter 
was well calculated to keep up this impression. Thyra, 
in a dark traveling-dress, silent, pale, frightened, at once 
clung to Harry and shrank from him; keeping close at 
his side, she did not yet venture a familiar look or word 
to him. dyne happening to catch sight of his own face 
in a looking-glass, was startled at its “funeral air,” as 
he said to himself; and Harry had the gravity of a' man 
waiting for. an attack which he knows he must endure 
and cannot repulse. The minister, little, old, and fee- 
ble, was so embarrassed, notwithstanding the almost 
deferential manner of bridegroom and bridegroom’s 
friend to him, by their vigorous presences and their 
composure, that he forgot the moral lecture he had 
intended, and confined himself to business. The wed- 
ding was soon over. Thyra, holding her husband’s 
hand, then timidly made a step forward, saying, “Mo- 


YESTERDA Y. 


i6i 


ther ! ” Mrs. Brink, keeping her hands at her side, kissed 
her daughter on the forehead, then turned away and 
walked out of the room without a word to any one. 
Thyra stood trembling and shivering from that icy kiss; 
Harry thought she would faint, and hurried her ' out 
into the air. Tyne staid a few minutes longer, hoping 
Mrs. Brink might give him some word of forgiveness 
for her daughter; but it was to no purpose. 

The next day Tyne sailed. There was no one he al- 
ready knew on the steamer; but when Grace came with 
two ladies of her acquaintance, — elderly people, shy, timid, 
and so unaccustomed to traveling that without her help 
they would hardly have found their way on board, — he 
told her he should consider them under his care; and in- 
deed they talked of “that very polite young man’' for 
years after. 

Grace herself had but a few moments to stay, on ac- 
count of her preparations for her own journey. 

“Little sister,” said Tyne, as he walked to the steps 
with her, “I don’t leave you as I could wish; why are 
you not to be happy yet ? ” 

Her eyes had been turned aside a moment, with a look 
of watching for some one who never came, now her fre- 
quent expression; but she brought them back at once to 
meet his, and pressed his hand warmly, saying, “Dear 
brother ! ” 


i 62 


YESTRKDA Y. 


All at once she started back; Harr}’’ Sundon stood be- 
fore them. He too was still in New York, and had come 
to see the last he could of Tyne. 

Since their conversation by the sea, Tyne had taken 
both past and future for granted, and served his friend 
without question or remark. Harry had meanwhile rea- 
soned with himself that after all he had conducted the af- 
fair as openly as possible, and that his marrying Thyra 
“ought to make it all right.'" But that did not protect 
him from the inference to be drawn from Tyne’s never 
having spoken of Grace again. Now, in her presence, 
seeing the instant change that came over her, and how 
the affectionate approachableness of her air as she took 
leave of Tyne vanished at sight of himself, Harry knew 
what she thought, and felt that it mattered a good deal 
to him somehow. Yet this repulse irritated him so, 
that he chanced in his anger on the very way to pro- 
voke a more decided one. He came forward, smiling, 
his hand held out to her. 

“Ah, Miss Delahay, how do you do.? So glad to meet 
you again. ” 

Grace did not even look at him; she turned on her 
heel, soldier-fashion, and left the ship without another 
word. Tyne made a step as if to follow her. 

‘ ‘ Best let her alone, Mont, ” said Harry, dropping his 
voice, and laying his hand on his friend’s arm. “She 


YESTERDAY. 


63 


is right enough; I shouldn’t have been so easy; and peo- 
ple will notice; let her go. But is she all alone.?” 

“She expected the Romaines; there they are. Are they 
coming back? no, they are gone now. There’s such a 
crowd; let’s get out of it. Come down aft, by the wheel, 
we shall have more room. There’s plenty of time, and I 
want to see all I can of you; we mayn’t meet again this 
many a day.” 


CHAPTER XL 



HE man who knows how to keep a hotel is very 


A likely to set more than one running. Tyne’s old 
acquaintance Start, not finding field enough for his ener- 
gies at the house in the Narrows, had in the course of 
time made an additional venture many miles off, on the 


south shore of Long Island. At first a small place fre- 


quented mostly by men who went a blue-fishing, it began 
to grow popular iu his hands with other visitors, till he 
found he must enlarge it. To do so to the best advan- 
tage, he had just bought the strip of land alongside; a 
poor barren field agriculturally, but worth something for 
his purpose. One day in the end of August, therefore, 
the owner came over to close the bargain. Of course he 
must dine and stay the night; that was the thing, particu 
larly as — on the hosts part — the sale had not been ar- 
ranged without a good deal of question. 

This owner was Felix Belden, returning to the East for 
the first time after four years’ absence. He had lately 
been advised that now was the best time to sell his prop- 
erty, but that it had been so mismanaged that his presence 


YES TER DA V. 


165 


was needed. This proved quite true; further, what with 
arrears of taxes and assessments that had not been duly 
reported, the money realized from the sale was not by any 
means enough to completely carry out his old plans; par- 
ticularly as he must incur fresh expenses on his return 
to California. The San Francisco climate was too trying 
for Florence; he had therefore decided to remove to a 
milder region in the south of the state. 

He had not prospered greatly yet; by denying himself 
everything not demanded by his profession, he had kept 
his head above water, and made his sister as comfortable 
as she would allow him; in view of her dependence on 
him, he had not let himself be tempted into any of the 
speculations that flourished and fluctuated about them; 
so at least he did not lose ground; only in his own eyes 
he gained none. Florence had spoken out just before he 
started on his journey, telling him plainly that Grace 
would surely be content with much less than his visioned 
least, and that if he loved her, he might marry her now; 
but he was not convinced. 

It fretted him to revisit the old neighborhoods, little 
better off than when he went, and with his father’s debts 
still unpaid; but worse yet was the finding old places 
empty of people he cared to see, only indifferent faces re- 
maining. Grace and Florence were always steady corres- 
pondents; but in hopes of hearing more, Felix had looked 


i66 


YESTERDAY. 


up Mrs. Bishop. She was re-established in the large 
house, with more money, and the companionship of a 
shadowy poor relation. The visit disappointed Felix. 
“Grace does not write very often,” said Mrs. Bishop; “she 
has nothing to tell but military matters, and she knows 
they do not interest me. She is not likely to return to 
the East; the Romaines are very kind to her, and they 
may not leave San Antonio for years yet. If she had re- 
ceived any money from my nephew Monteith’s estate her 
plans might have been changed, but she did not. His 
will was found only the other day among some old pa- 
pers; it divided his property between Grace and my great- 
nephew, Tony Waveney. But even if we had discovered 
it before, it would have been of no value, on account of 
Mr. Goring’s failure, which happened almost simultane- 
ously with Monteith’s death. My nephew had very fool- 
ishly put all his money in that one investment, and it 
turned out that Mr. Goring had contrived to make away 
with everything. He disappeared at once, and nothing 
has ever been recovered. Mr. Hawk was at one time 
on his track, in the interests of other parties equally plun- 
dered; but was killed in a railroad accident, or at least 
found dead afterwards on the spot; there were suspicions 
of murder, though no positive proof — and I imagine the 
matter has been abandoned since. It has been ver}' un- 
fortunate for Grace.” 


YESTERDA Y. 


67 


“ Surely, ” said Felix. He had known Tyne after his 
return from Europe, and for a while feared him as a pos- 
sible rival. Now the failure of the dead man’s last inten- 
tions was a curious and unexpected disappointment to the 
living. If Grace had had this money, she would have 
been able to marry where she pleased; yet it had not been 
so great a sum as to make the world call her lover a for- 
tune-hunter, — though Felix would have dared that, or 
indeed anything but his one fear of bringing her to a 
struggling home life. But Mrs. Bishop must not suspect 
his story. 

“My nephew died very suddenly, as he was returning 
from abroad,” the old lady went on; “it was a case of 
unsuspected heart-disease. My worst fears for him, that 
the end would find him totally unprepared, were quite 
realized. I am afraid too that his influence on Tony 
was a bad one; for directly the boy was left to himself 
he went on the stage, as perhaps you know.” 

“I had heard so much.” 

“I wrote Tony a letter of advice and condolence on 
his uncle's death; but it had merely the effect that he 
has never come near me since. Still we have had a 
little business correspondence, about Monteith’s papers, 
some of which concerned my property. But finally the 
child has sent me his wedding-cards ! I have mislaid 
them; and I forget the bride’s name; it is not a familiar 


i68 


YESTERDAY. 


one, to me at least. If you could procure me some 
reliable information about her, Doctor Belden, you 
would greatly oblige me. I imagine that he has married 
beneath him; but if she is respectable, I shall feel it my 
duty to visit her.’' 

‘ ‘ I shall be very glad to help you. ” 

“So absurdly imprudent that he should marry at all. 
He has only been on the stage a year, and I believe 
plays very trifling parts; how is he to support a family ? 
It is strange how many misfortunes, we hive in our 
connection. Some people do so well ! My old friend 
Mrs. Corbin’s son, for instance, — to be sure, he left Mr. 
Goring in good time.” 

“I used to know Charley Corbin, what has become 
of him .? ” 

“Oh, he’s been most fortunate; he fell in love with 
a young girl from St. Louis, that he met at Narragan- 
sett; her father, who is very rich, took him into his 
business when they married, and he is very successful, 
and very good to his mother and sisters. The girls are 
both engaged now — ” and she enlarged on their prospects 
for some time. 

Leaving Mrs. Bishop, Felix had strayed down to the 
shore, which he found little changed. This region’ was 
sacred to Grace in his mind; but to his great annoyance, 
the talk of two passing strollers raised an association which 


YESTERDA Y. 


169 


Struck him as insufferably mean and vulgar in contrast 
with her image. A pair of young fellows were standing 
on the beach, looking at the Firebrace house. “And 
that’s where Mr. Sundon boarded that summer,” said 
one, as if concluding a story. 

“Oh, is it?” answered the other. “It must have 
looked nicer then, for anybody to stay there.” The 
house indeed was neglected and shabby, old Firebrace 
having died and left a disputed will. 

Felix had heard Sundon’s story as a piece of gossip, 
after Benson’s company had gone away from San Fran- 
cisco; stories traveling more slowly in those days than 
now. It had completed for him his first impression of 
Harry. They had never met, — poor hard-worked Felix 
saw little enough society, except medically — but the Doc- 
tor knew Harry by sight, both on and off the stage. The 
theatrical impression was a pleasant one; here was real 
art, that one might be enthusiastic about without exag- 
geration. Notwithstanding, Felix disliked the man, set- 
ting him down as fast, untrustworthy, and self-seeking; 
those touches of refinement and generous feeling that 
made his acting so admirable were probably all studied, 
caught from keen observation of others, — poor Tyne, 
for instance, he who had not been entirely bad by any 
means, and who perhaps Grace was mourning; while it 
was not likely any woman worth thinking of would ever 


70 


YESTERDA Y. 


regret Sundon. Felix had also had a glimpse of Thyra, 
but she had impressed him little; she was “only a beauty/" 
he said. The company had gone to Australia after a while, 
with a successful record; he had not followed their course 
since. 

At Start’s house on the south shore, Felix thought he 
had left all this behind. His business done, he sat in 
his room overlooking the sea, finishing a letter to Flor- 
ence; but ran short of writing paper, and descended to 
the office to borrow a sheet. It was near tea-time (the 
house dined early, but the tea was all but a second din- 
ner); people who had been out on the water came back 
in small parties, reporting a fine breeze and plenty of fish. 

“ Has Mr. Sundon got in yet, do you know, Doctor.? ” 
Start inquired of Felix, as he gave him the paper. “ His 
room’s next yours.” 

“I haven’t seen him. Is he staying here.?” 

“He dropped down all of a sudden this morning, he 
and his wife, and were out on the water before you came. 
Lucky I had a front room, or they’d have been off again. 
They came here for quiet, and the house i§ packed like 
a beehive; a half-dozen people left at twelve, to be sure, 
but the late train’ll bring more than enough to fill up, 
I expect. He’s turned more particular about accommo- 
dations than he used to be when he was one of five at 
Firebrace’s; to be sure, the ladies have their fancies, you 


YES TEJADA Y. 


171 

know. But the sooner they’re on shore now the better; 
the wind’s falling, and if it comes up again it’ll be with a 
thunder-squall. Do you know Mr. Sundon, Doctor?” 

“Only by sight.” 

“I’ll make you acquainted, if you like.” 

‘ ‘ It’s not worth while, thank you. I must leave to- 
morrow; and if he wants a quiet time, a stranger would 
only bore him.” 

“I guess he’s hardly your style anyhow. Doctor; too 
much of the sporting man for you. Mr. Tyne, now, 
would have been more your kind; plenty of go in him, 
but always the gentleman. Not that I’m saying anything 
against Mr. Sundon, but they do tell me he has the dev- 
il’s own temper; though I never knew him get up on his 
ear when I was round, I ought to say. But I don’t be- 
lieve he means it; only he’s one of those unlucky people 
that can’t stand anything much to drink, the second glass 
flies to their heads, you know; hard lines for a social man. 
And Mrs. Sundon, how she’s gone off! Nobody would 
run away with her now, poor thing. It’s hard on such 
a soft kind of woman to have had two men grabbing for 
her that way, pulls her all to pieces. Miss Delahay, Mr. 
Tyne’s cousin that was, was better style, though never so 
pretty to begin with. I always wondered Mr. Tyne didn’t 
marry her; just as well now though he didn’t, to leave 
her a poor widow.” 


172 


YESTERDAY. 


This jumble of names and recollections was unpleas- 
ing enough to Felix; he was not sorry that the tea-time 
gong cut it short. 

At tea, he found himself opposite three empty seats; in 
a few minutes two of them were taken by people he at 
once recognized as the Sundons. ‘‘Am I never to get 
away from them?” thought Felix, impatiently; then, 

‘ ‘ How foolish to take them so seriously ! They are only 
part of the local curiosities.” 

This last idea seemed to be shared by the rest of the 
company. It was rather a miscellaneous crowd that bor- 
dered the long narrow table; and some of the ladies 
seemed as if they might have histories in time to come; 
this did not prevent them from looking down from a 
higher plane at Mrs. Sundon, who had already had hers. 
From the hardly whispered remarks made among the large 
party on his left, Felix gathered that the past season in 
New York had been marked by professional success for 
the husband and social failure for the wife. The men 
regarded Thyra with much less of insolent admiration 
than their stares had betokened in San Francisco; for she 
had faded indeed; her eyes were heavy and downcast, her 
skin a pasty white, her hair a much smaller coil than 
formerly. She cast furtive glances, alarmed and timid, 
along the unfriendly line of faces; or towards her husband, 
as if she wished his support, but feared reproof for seeking 


YESTERDA Y. 


173 


it; then would try to disguise her distress with a forced 
smile. Harry, on his part, seemed equally unmoved by 
her pain and the inquisitive attention of the company. 
When silent, he looked a little bored; but most of the 
time he kept up a brisk conversation with the men near- 
est him, — big noisy fellows of Goring s pattern, who, as 
Start would have said, “talked the New York Clipper 
like a minister talks the Bible.” They kept each other 
in a roar of laughter; Harry amused himself and them by 
imitations of people they knew, by new variations on well- 
worn sporting men’s themes, by pretenses at being 
shocked when anything specially cynical was said, made 
in the form of mock disclaimers really more intense in 
cynicism than the original speech. He was the only 
clever one of the set; but the others aired their dull wits 
with great complacency. The largest and loudest of 
them all, who sat beside Felix, occasionally leaned over 
the table and addressed some trifling remark to Thyra; 
she would reply inaudibly, and he would make her repeat 
her answer. After this had happened three or four times, 
she suddenly rose and left the room. 

“What’s the matter with your wife, Harry.?” said 
Felix’s neighbor. 

“Oh, she’s got a headache,” Harry answered carelessly; 
“she always has before a thunder-shower; it’s as good as 
a barometer.” 


174 


YESTERDAY. 


“Yes, mighty convenient!’' And no more was said 
of her, only Felix thought, “Poor woman! whatever 
wrong she did her former husband, this one is likely 
to return with interest.” 

People began before long to leave the table; but Harry 
and his companions lingered; Harry took to telling stories 
that were hard not to laugh at, and yet were flavored with 
quite too coarse salt, notwithstanding their wit. At the 
same time, he was carefully watching Felix, as if he 
thought him some acquaintance he ought to recognize, 
but could not recall. This soon struck the Doctor as 
too much; he put an end to it by going away to finish 
his letter. 

His writing done, Felix put out his light, not to 
draw mosquitoes, and sat for how long he could not 
tell, thinking of past and future; but most of all of 
Grace. The rising moon was struggling with the 
heavy low-flying 'ragged clouds. Felix vaguely con- 
sidered whether he would go down to the beach to 
see the coming shower better; but after all did not 
move. Suddenly he was startled by a rough, bantering 
voice, saying, “Now, Thyra, what possessed you to make 
such a fool of yourself this evening .? Tell me that.” 

The speaker seemed to be at Felix’s elbow; yet no 
one had been in the room the moment before. Felix 
turned his head, and found the explanation; he was 


YESTERDAY. 


175 


sitting close to a door which led into the next room; 
being ill-fitted and having sunk, there was a space at 
the top of it through which the sounds came distinctly. 
In a breath the plaintive answer followed: “I had such 
a headache; you know I had, Harry.” 

“That doesn’t matter. A woman of the world knows 
how to disguise a headache when she is in a public place; 
and my wife must be a woman of the world, if she wants 
to go about with me.” 

“ Now don’t begin scolding. Suppose any one should 
hear ! ” 

“Who can.? This room’s on the corner of the house, 
and anybody on the other side of us would be .sure to 
show a light. Nobody but you wants to sit in the dark 
with the June-bugs.” 

“It’s too late for those horrid things. Well, if you 
are going to be cross, I hope nobody’s there, and I wish 
you had staid down-stairs,” in a quivering voice. 

Felix, though with some compunction, decided not 
to make his presence known; a plan he had reason not 
to regret. 

“In four years,” Sundon went on, “you might get 
used to things.” 

“I couldn’t help it.” 

“None of your little fibs, my dear; don’t waste your 
ammunition on me; I understand you too well to make 


176 


YESTERDA F. 


it worth your while. You won’t face the notice you and 
I have invited by our way of living. You worried and 
fretted me away from Newport, just as I was beginning 
to enjoy myself, and got me into this dull little hole, — 
a damned dull life we shall have of it here, I can let 
you know, — and now you’re just as bad as before.” 

“I never w’ould have asked you to come if I had known 
what kind of a place it was. Why didn’t you tell me ? ” 

“ How could I } The house has changed since my day. 
You don’t mind our old friend Start, at least, do you?” 

“Yes. He doesn’t treat me properly. The way he 
looks at me and talks to me, one would think I was a 
naughty child.” 

“So you were when he knew you first” 

“Harry!” 

“What’s the matter now? One mayn’t touch you with 
a feather. I haven’t called any hard names, though there 
are plenty in English; or if you’d rather, French or Italian; 
I picked up a lot of Italian once from some opera-people, 
and I haven’t forgotten it all yet” 

‘ ‘ Harry, you’ve been drinking, that’s what makes you 
so cross. And you know you oughtn’t to, it’s so bad for 
you.” 

“What else can a man do in a place like this, with 
such a thick-headed gang of fellows for company as we 
had to-night ? a man that’s been hard-worked all winter 


YESTERDA Y. 


177 


and spring, and plagued by his wife all summer ? Well, 
suppose I have had a drop too much, you can’t say I’m 
really drunk. Perhaps you’d like it better if I was.” 

“You know I wouldn’t.” 

“Like that Australian you remember.? Nice fellow! 
I thrashed him pretty well, I believe. You might be 
more grateful; but it’s like you. Much of a bojine camarade 
you are ! I knew when I first saw you you were a little 
dunce, only good to listen .to what one said and to look 
pretty; but that you would turn out such a fretful whin- 
ing thing, without the courage of a fly, not able to carry 
out what you began — ” 

“What more can I do, Harry.?” 

“Be bold and face the world as if you didn’t care a 
continental for it. Laugh and talk with whoever comes; 
snub people that snub you, and never show it if you are 
hurt. ” 

“I tried that last winter.” 

“Did you.? You were too half-hearted about it, then; 
never brave, never sure of yourself. You behaved as if 
you were my mistress, not my wife. ” • 

“Those women are brazen enough.” 

“They know how to play their part; and you won’t 
even learn yours. I’m ashamed of you. After all I’ve 
done for you, you might show you appreciated it.” 

“What have you done for me so much.? To make me 


YESTERDAY. 


178 

wretched just to please yourself? was that what you prom- 
ised me ? 

“ Do you mean Fm not a man of my word ? I think 
I am, and better too, if anything. I never need have 
married you; I might have left you any time I chose, and 
who could have called me to account ? " 

“Mr. Tyne. He thought you owed me something, 
and — ” 

“What makes you speaker the dead? It’s unlucky; 
stop it.” 

“He was always so good to me.” 

“Yes, out of politeness; but all the time he despised 
you, and thought you weren’t good enough for me. Be- 
fore we ran away, he wanted me to marry his cousin 
Grace. I’m glad enough I didn’t; I couldn’t bear her, 
with her cold heart and her virtuous airs; she would have 
kept me tied down tight, or made a hypocrite of me; but 
you’re just as bad in your own way.” 

“Oh, what’s that noise?” 

At the mention of Grace, Felix had started, pushing 
back his chair unconsciously. 

“Rats, most likely,” Harry remarked. 

“Oh, are there rats in this house? I should die if 
I saw one.” 

“ Dozens of them. But you’re tougher than that; now 
don’t make me wish you weren’t.” 


YESTERDAY. 


M9 


“Oh!” 

“I could do without you pretty well; don’t you make it 
easier for me.” 

“What do you mean.? You promised you would 
never send me back to my mother, and now she’s dead. 
You know you can’t break our marriage — ^)'Ou know — ” 

“Look here, Thyra; I’ve been really a good husband 
to you, better than many men would have been; but if 
you go on making yourself ridiculous and me uncomfort- 
able, — why then, when I want any woman’s company, it 
won’t be yours.” 

“You mean you’ve fallen in love with some other 
woman .? ” 

“Not yet; and I’m not very likely to, after my experi- 
ence; still even a man of sense don’t always know how he 
will act in a given case; and I have had to confess myself 
a fool in that line more than once.” 

“Do you love me at all any more.?” 

“Not a great deal; perhaps I never shall again as you 
understand that sentiment. But if you only choose, we 
may get along tolerably well in future, now we’ve once 
had it out together. It all depends on you; keep up 
your spirits, and I’ll keep my temper; then if we don’t 
care much about each other, at least we shall have peace.” 

“I wish I was dead! I wish I had died long, long 
ago, when I was a girl ! Or when you loved me and 


i8o 


. YESTERDAY. 


went away, — that would have been the time. But Til 
die yet, and you shall be sorry for it too.” 

‘ ‘ If you always were the way you are now, I don’t 
think I should. If you want to be my torment, you 
can plague me most by living. But I know you; to- 
morrow you’ll be as sweet as honey to me again. Only 
stay so, if you want me not to get too tired of you. 
Now let me have a nap: I’m sleepy. After that we'll 
go down-stairs and see if anybody I know came by the 
late train.” 

Nothing more was said; but Felix now felt obliged 
still to listen. The despairing tone of Thyra’s voice in 
the latter part of the conversation had alarmed him; he 
was sure that she would try to do herself some harm, 
and that her husband would not watch to prevent it. 
Soon Harry’s heavy breathing told he was asleep. Then 
Thyra, moving cautiously, stole to her door, opened it, 
and went out along the hall. As soon as he heard her 
steps descending the back stairs, Felix slipped out and 
followed her. 

Along one side of the hotel ran a road, which led 
by many turns to the rather distant railroad station. 
Near the house a shady lane struck off, at the end of 
which was a little pond, not too shallow to drown any 
one who wished. It could be seen, even in the dark- 
ness which had now fallen, gleaming faintly under the 


YESTERDAY. 


8l 


swamp willows. Thyra took her way thither, as Felix 
had expected; she had noticed the water as she passed 
by in arriving, and she remembered it now. He fol- 
lowed her, keeping in the shadows. She never looked 
back. The cart-track led into the pond; she walked 
straight on. He hastened his steps; she heard him, 
and threw herself forward on her face; but he caught 
her as she fell. She struggled desperately with him, 
but he held her fast and brought her to the firm ground. 

‘ ‘ Why don’t you let me alone ? ” she cried. ‘ ‘ What 
do you stop me for .? Who are you, that you won’t let 
me die in peace.?” 

“It is not .your time yet, Mrs. Sundon.” 

“W’hat do you know about it? Get away. Yes, I 
am Mrs. Sundon, and I was Mrs. Lang, and I always 
shall be the most miserable woman on earth, and you 
won’t let me make an end; for I tell you it would be 
one, no matter what you ministers think. The Lord 
would give me one day’s rest in my grave, whatever 
came next.” 

“I am not a minister; I am a doctor.” 

“That’s just as bad. You’re all alike; one thinks he 
understands people’s souls, and one their bodies, but 
neither of them do any good. What use are they all 
indeed? All the ministers that came to my mother's 
house taught me nothing to keep me from going wrong. 


i 82 


YESTERDAY. 


All the doctors didn’t save me my children. I’ve lost 
four now — all 1 had — none left me. And you must 
come and interfere. Oh, do let me go! — do let me 
die I— do, do ! ” 

She would have fallen on her knees before him, if he 
had not held her up. A last ray of moonlight, breaking 
through the clouds and between the thick willows, stiuck 
on his face, and showed it to her, pitying and kind. 

“If you could make things right between my husband 
Harry Sundon and me,” she felt moved to say, “you 
might stop me; but I know you can’t.” 

“Let me try.” 

“No, you never can now. He’d find out what I’ve 
meant to do, and he’d never forgive me. Perhaps he’d 
put me in an asylum for a madwoman; perhaps he would 
drive me really mad — You don’t know what cruel things 
he can say; worst of all when he’s been drinking; but after 
this he won’t need that to set him on against me. Oh, 
I can’t bear it.” 

“You shall not have to. Come back, and let me 
talk to him.” 

“It’s no use; he doesn’t care for me any more, he 
just told me so.” 

“Did you say he had been drinking this evening.?” 

“Yes, he has.” 

“Then he don’t know what he has been saying; nor 


YESTERDA Y. 


you either now, you are so excited; but that doesn’t mat- 
ter. I can make him sober, and sorry for you too, and 
I will. Come now; we can get back to the house before 
any one finds out you have been gone. ” 

‘‘It is all full of rats, horrid rats!” 

“Oh no, I know the house, there’s not one in it” 

“I heard them.” 

“It was a window shutting, or the furniture cracking. 
Never mind that” 

She suffered him to lead her a few steps; then she 
stopped short 

“I can’t, I can’t, I — oh!” 

A sudden tremendous .clap of thunder rang out, at 
the same minute, it seemed, with the blaze of lightning 
that encircled them; then all was dark. 

“Oh, are you killed?” cried Thyra. “You mustn’t 
be killed for me.” 

“No, indeed.. Come out of this; let me carry you, 
we shall go quicker.” 

He caught her up and made his way back as fast as 
he could through the wild weather; the dead darkness 
could hardly hold its own against the constant lightning- 
sheets; the rain rattled down in heavy torrents, the thun- 
der hardly out-roaring it. At the house door he set her 
on her feet again, though still giving her his arm. The 
hotel was in confusion when they re-entered it;' people 


84 


YESTERDAY. 


were running about shutting doors and windows, frigtit- 
ened children were crying; the stage from the late train,, 
due an hour ago, but delayed by a tedious though trifling 
accident, had only just got in, and was discharging its 
load of fatigued and excited passengers, about accommo- 
dating all of whom there was some doubt. In this 
turmoil Thyra and Felix passed unobserved. 

Harry Sundon, meanwhile, had been awakened by 
the first great thunderclap. He sat up and looked 
about him, wondered what time of night it was, and 
why he had gone to sleep in his clothes. He got up, 
found the rain dashing in; shut the window, lit a can- 
dle, splashed cold water on his head till he felt it clearer; 
looked at his watch, and saw it was not late yet; turned 
to speak to Thyra, but she was not there. Had she gone 
down into the parlor to find some company during the 
storm } she was so afraid of lightning; but then most 
likely she would have waked him. No, he had scolded 
her for doing that once, and she wouldn’t again. Was 
that what they had been talking about before he went 
to sleep.? He had been finding some fault with her; 
he could not remember what, but he was afraid he had 
been rather harder on her than was fair. To be sure, 
she did provoke him a good deal sometimes, often; she 
was getting to be a terrible drag on him; all that Tyne 
had prophesied of her had come true, he felt it. Was 


YESTERDAY. 


185 


that what he must pay for winning her as he had? 
Poor child, she was paying harder for her share in the 
case. These four years had been a time of professional 
success for him; and since his return home, people had 
begun to overlook the fact that the man who delighted 
them on the stage had had any stain on his private life. 
But she, — because she could give the public nothing, 
they made no allowances for her. He had plenty of 
friends and acquaintance, professional and other (though 
no one ever had filled or could fill Tyne’s place with 
him); she, between the women that thought themselves 
too good and those he thought too bad for her, had no 
one of her own sex, and his friends troubled themselves 
very little about her now. If their children had lived, it 
would have helped matters; have given her comfort, and’ 
drawn her closer to him again. (Harry often talked as if 
he detested children, but he really was fond of them, and 
would have spoiled rather than neglected his own, if he 
had had the chance.) Now he was her only companion, 
and had he not failed in his part ? He had even accepted 
civilities which should have included her as his wife or 
not have been extended to him; and she had felt that 
keenly. This case had only lately confronted him; but 
ought he not to put a stop to it? And after that, was 
there no more to do? 

In answer, the door opened, and Felix came in with 


i86 


YESTERDAY. 


Thyra; he alert and anxious, she faint and stupefied; both 
dripping with rain. 

‘ ‘ Why, Thyra, what’s happened to you ” cried Harry 
in amazement ‘‘You never would put your head out of 
doors before in a thunder-shower; and here you are a 
perfect fountain.” 

“You’ll be angry with me,” she managed to say, as she 
dropped into a chair. 

“Nonsense! what for? But who’s this?” 

“Doctor Felix Belden, at your service,” answered the 
new-comer. 

“ Is that only politeness, ” thought Harry, “or does he 
think one may be wanting him ? Something’s wrong. ” 
Then aloud, “Much obliged to you, Doctor. Now I 
think we’d better leave Mrs. Sundon to herself, and you 
can tell me what the matter is. Thyra, you take oif your 
wet things and go to bed. I’ll have them send you up 
something warm to drink. ” She was shivering all over. 
“That’s the right prescription. Doctor, isn’t it?” 

“As far as it goes,” said Felix. “Now, Mrs. Sundon, 
you must not be frightened; the storm is nearly over.” 

“You’re as wet yourself as if you’d been in swimming. 
Doctor,” said Harry, as they came out 

“ I have plenty of dry clothes. This is my room; when 
you are ready, I think we have a word to say to each 
other.” 


YESTEI^DA Y. 


187 


Harry went rather uneasily to see about ‘^something 
warm ” for Thyra; the bell was broken, and he had to 
hunt up service for himself. He was half glad of the in- 
terruption, and half annoyed by it; he wanted a moment 
to compose himself, yet, uncertain what part to take, 
longed to encounter the new condition of things at once. 
Thyra’s state was alarming; and the appearance of this un- 
known man, suddenly becoming concerned in their affairs, 
irritating to the highest degree. Some blame, perhaps, 
the new-comer had to give. Now self-accusation in si- 
lence and alone is one thing, but the same reproof from 
the lips of a stranger who has no share in your misdeeds 
is quite another. 

Harry felt immediately on the defensive, yet could not 
resist a sense that it might be better to own himself in 
the wrong, — at least if the Doctor were disposed to make 
allowances. 

When he knocked at Felix’s door, the Doctor came out 
to meet him, with a candle in his hand. 

“We must not talk here,” he said; “everything can be 
overheard, and nothing could be worse for Mrs. Sundon 
just now. This room opposite is empty, for it is out of 
repair. ” 

The ceiling of the room had lately fallen, and the rub- 
bish was not yet cleared away; with some trouble they 
found themselves place among the wreck. The rosy fires 


YESTERDAY. 


1 88 

of the lightning were fainter; the rain still rattled down, 
but not so loud. The storm without was dying down. 
Was one to rise within ? 

‘ ‘ I thought this evening, Doctor, ” said Harry, inten- 
tionally taking the first word, “that you were an old ac- 
quaintance. I see I am mistaken; but I find I am to 
know you now. You understand what has happened 
in the last half-hour better than I. Is anything serious 
the matter with my wife.?” 

“She has been tiydng to drown herself.” 

“What for? You’re joking, and it is not so good a 
joke either.” 

“No, I am in earnest, and so was she, on account 
of what you have been saying to her. I told you one 
might overhear from your room to mine.” 

“Why, what did I say? I know we had some sort 
of foolish quarrel, but I did not think I was so very un- 
pleasant as that.” 

“If you had been sober, such talk would be unpar- 
donable.” 

“I don’t remember anything; do you?” 

Felix had a better verbal memory than common; he 
was able to repeat the conversation (leaving out however 
what related to Grace, whose name he would not men- 
tion here) with a distinctness which made Harry protest 
more than once, “I’m sure I never said that.” 


YESTERDAY. 189 

shouldn’t have thought of it by myself,” was Felix’s 
answer. 

“Well,” said Harry at last, “you have me at your 
mercy, it seems.” 

“How so? Do you suppose I would let this go any 
further?” 

“No; you don’t look like a reporter. But you see, 
you are in my wife’s confidence, and you side with 
her.” 

“Only the better to reconcile you. What other thing 
can I or ought I to be thinking of? and it is surely 
within my province, though hardly within my power; 
that really belongs to you.” 

A recollection came before Harry of Grace’s pleading 
with him for Thyra, long ago. That time he had failed 
in what he had undertaken, to be sure. Now he need 
not; this was after all but a trifle. 

“Oh, well,” he said, “there’s no trouble to speak of 
about it; I have only to tell her the truth, that I didn’t 
mean it, as I didn’t, — I am really fond of her, I swear 
I am ! — ^and she’ll believe me.” 

“You will have to keep saying and showing that, and 
not contradict it by any hasty word or deed for a long 
time, to make her certainly trust you. This is not your 
first quarrel, and she has learned to doubt you.” 

“I’ll cut the bottle, anyway; it’s not easy, but it’s got 


190 


YESTERDA Y. 


to be done; I always treat her badly if Tve had any too 
much.” 

“You had better on your own account too; you are 
one of those people that stimulants hurt more than they 
help, and take more from than they give.” 

“Upon my word, you speak with authority.” 

“Excuse me if I am too professional; where there is 
so much at stake, one uses all one’s arms.” 

“Nobody has been so frank with me since my old 
friend Monty Tyne’s day. Did you ever happen to 
know him } ” 

“Yes.” 

‘ ‘ What did you think of him ” • 

“As a man who, after all, was better than his rep- 
utation.” 

“You’re not so stiff as I took you to be. Well — 
You. say ‘there is so much at stake;’ what do you mean 
exactly.? Is there anything you have not told me.?” 

“Yes. You have to hear the worst. Your wife has 
suffered a great shock, which will affect her both in body 
and mind; and her life for some years past must have 
been gradually unfitting her to bear it. The chances are, 
brain-fever now, with the possibility of her losing either 
her life or her reason; and if she recovers, there is still 
the risk of her being an invalid for the rest of hel 
days.” 


YESTERDA F. 


9 


*‘0n my word, this stuff here had better have come 
down on my head.” 

“No; if you have not killed her, you may save her 
yet” 

“But what's to be done first of all? What's to be 
done now?” 

“Tell her that you are not angry, that you don’t hate 
her, that you have not forsaken her; tell her anything 
affectionate, — and mean it if you can.” 

“Easy enough.” 

“At present she had best not see any one but yourself. 
If you cannot calm her, call me; but I think you can 
now. Possibly we may ward off this first attack, though 
I can be sure of nothing before morning.” 

“I'll see.” Harry left the room at once. 

Thyra had been waiting nerv’ously during this talk, 
sick with anticipation of what Harry might say once 
they were alone together. She had no power of resist- 
ance before him. What might appear like a defense 
was only the instinctive outcry of a wounded crea- 
ture. Against Lang's domination she had made head 
sometimes in former days; but Sundon's mastery of her 
was keener and more thorough. One of the cutting 
speeches she was growing familiar with from him would 
kill her now she thought. When she heard the door 
open, she put her hand over her mouth, not to scream. 


192 


YESTERDA V. 


‘‘Thyra!” he said, very gently. 

She still did not dare to speak. He sat down by the 
bed, put out his hand and let it rest lightly on her 
hair. 

^‘Thyra, darling, you mustn’t be afraid of me. I won’t 
be unkind to you any more. I can’t do without you; if I 
say so, you mustn’t believe me; you must only believe I 
really love you.” 

Had she ever heard his voice so soft, so pleading, so 
loving ? even in the best of his acting ? or even when — oh, 
should she never escape those recollections and the dis- 
grace in them ? 

“I don’t deserve to live,” she said. 

“Thyra, if you die, I shall have murdered you; so you 
will live now, won’t you, to save me from that ? ” 

She began to sob and cry; not as Grace would have, for 
greater pain, but for mere relief from the tension of her 
former terror. He held her hands and stroked her hair, 
calling her every tender name he could think of. 

Meanwhile Felix had gone down to see if the late train 
had brought him any acquaintances. He wanted the rest 
of looking on a familiar face, if possible, before entering on 
the night that he foreboded. 

As he came into the large parlor where most of the 
guests were gathered, a well-known figure unexpectedly 


Y ESTER DA V. 


193 


rose to meet him, saying with a pleasant voice and cordial 
tone, 

“YouVe not forgotten me, Doctor Belden ? ” 

“Why, Miss Pringle!’’ he answered. 

“The ‘ spoilt child, Miss Pringle,’ as the Norton boys 
used to call me.? Yes and no. Doctor. I am Mrs. Tonv 
Waveney now, and here is my husband to spoil me in- 
stead of my Sister. Tony, here’s an old friend from Cali- 
fornia for us.” 

“One I remember on this side too, before I came into 
all my feet and inches,” answered the husband in^ as 
friendly a tone as hers. “Come, Doctor, ‘let’s pre-empt 
that corner, and have a big talk,’ as Ina would say. ” 

They moved aside, out of the stream of conversation 
flowing round the other new arrivals, who were making 
large stories out of the small accident. Everybody had 
dined, the storm had settled into a drizzle, and the 
troubles of the evening were giving place to a general 
feeling of comfort. 

Tony Waveney was very like Tyne in appearance, with 
his marked though plain features and distinguished air; 
but he had, and was likely to keep long, the look of 
youth which his uncle had early lost. An easier, sim- 
pler, more unpractical fellow than Tony never got through 
the world; even his vigorous sense of humor did not make 
him suspicious or prudent. His true aid and balance was 


194 


VESTE/WA V. 


not in himself, but in the little woman at his side. Ina 
(she had been sentimentally christened Malvina, but she 
hardly knew it herself, much less her friends, accustomed 
to the pretty shorter substitute) was not at all of the slim 
type common to the daughters of new settlements. Her 
figure, though it showed a fine healthy physique, lacked 
a good deal of being graceful, inclining rather to the 
short, stocky, solid type of the Roman women. But 
like them, she had a clear dark skin and a fine head 
with abundant black hair and large black eyes. Nof 
were those eyes of the common Italian unexpressive 
variety; such living and feeling ones would have be- 
fitted a patriot soul, whose men had had her hearty 
good-bye when they went with Garibaldi to fight the 
French in ’49, or her quick-witted aid when, the cause 
being lost, they must retreat with him. Ina’s fate had 
not given her so severe an experience; but it had de- 
manded both energy and patience of her, and had not 
found her wanting. She had known trials in her girl- 
hood, and borne them cheerfully; her marriage was 
bringing her into unaccustomed circumstances, but she 
would take her new life in hand from its best side. Her 
practical nature dealt easily with details which perplexed 
her husband, while her love for him kept her from be- 
ing disturbed at his want of business-like ways and 
abilities. Seeing her skill in affairs and her matronly 


VRSTERDA V. 


95 


looks, some people fancied her the elder; but in reality 
Tony counted two years more. 

Felix had known Ina in San Francisco, as an orphan 
cared for by her married sister; the pet of the housefiold, 
but scarcely deserving the name some of her acquaint- 
ance had given her. The brother-in-law, an amiable, 
lively, extravagant man, invested nearly all he had in 
mines; his income therefore underwent constant ups 
and downs,- the effects of which it took all -the care 
and good sense of Ina and Nelly to moderate. For 
nearly two years the family had lived abroad, and Felix 
had thus lost sight of them, not even knowing of Ina's 
marriage. There had never been any sentimental feeling 
between the Doctor and the young girl; they liked each 
other, but Ina thought him too grave, and he found 
her (preoccupied as he was with Grace) lacking in charm. 
Still he was always glad to meet her, particularly just now. 
This healthy contrast to the impression of the Sundons’ 
affair was the relief he needed. Besides, as Waveney 
belonged to the same theatrical company as Sundon, 
some information might be had which would be much 
to the purpose. Felix felt uncertain of understanding 
Harry; and yet Thyra’s life perhaps was to depend on 
the judgment he made. 

Meanwhile Ina was talking: 

“It seemed very natural you should call me Miss 


196 


YESTERDAY. 


Pringle, Doctor; I have hardly got the habit of writing 
‘ Ina Waveney ’ yet, though it is a real change for the 
better; just as it always bothered me to put the fresh 
dates in my letters after every New Year’s Day.” 

“You have not been married long?” 

“Not a fortnight But we were engaged a year, — 
and such an everlasting one, because I had to stay on 
the wrong side of the sea.” 

“That’s well over now, though,” said Waveney; “here 
we are on our wedding trip. I should have liked ‘a 
quieter place, but everywhere we have trie'd to go there’s 
the same crowd; and then here we find friends, — your- 
self, and Sundon, who Start tells me came this morning. 

I thought he was at Newport still. Did you ever know 
him ? ” 

“Our acquaintance has just begun.” 

“Where is he?” 

“His wife is ill, and he cannot leave her. I don’t 
think you will see him to-night.” 

“Oh, I can wait. I’m sorry for Mrs. Sundon; she 
doesn’t look as if she could stand much.” 

“What do you make of her husband?” 

“Don’t you like him? Oh, I see; he’s been drinking. 
It’s too bad. There never was a man that one could 
more truly call ‘not himself’ in that case. All the same 
he’s my best friend, and I owe him everything.” 


YESTERDA Y. 


97 


“Yes, I’m sure no thanks could be too much from us 
to him,” said Ina. “Tell how it all happened, Tony.” 

“1 may as well begin at the beginning, then. Doctor, 
if you care to hear.” 

“Indeed I do care.” 

“My father, you see, having been a distinguished grad- 
uate of a German School of Mines insisted that I should 
follow in his footsteps; a very good idea, but for the one 
trifling fact, that he and I are too unlike for our successes 
to ever be the same. When my uncle Mont came out 
to me, I had already begun to understand, that I was 
in the wrong place, and hinted as much to him. ‘ What 
else would you like to do ? ’ he asked. I didn’t quite 
know. He persuaded me to keep on a little longer, 
and a little longer, he living meanwhile in the same dull 
town and making it as bright for me as he could. But 
after two years he owned I was right. Then he said, 
‘There’s no hurry; I’ve capital enough to start you in any 
business you like at any time you please; what you want 
now is a year’s travel, to see what people are like and 
how they live, and so be better able to choose your own 
work, — for you must have something to do; you’ll never 
be happy as an idler.’ We traveled, and two things 
came of it; I revived an old boyish hankering for the 
stage, and I met Ina.” 

“Yes, and I must tell you where. Doctor,” she said; “it 


YESTRRDA Y. 


was so appropriate to your eminently unromantic friend. 
In the elevator of the Charing Cross Hotel. We in- 
spected each other from the ground floor to the fifth 
story, and our minds were made up when we reached 
the^top, though we waited a while to declare them,” 

“I found no difference of opinion when I ventured 
on stating mine, though,” said Waveney. “Next, I took 
my uncle into my confidence. My theatrical views 
seemed to disturb him a little. ‘A not uncommon 
fancy of clever, young people,’ he said; ‘but there’s a 
great deal to be thought of — ^you’ve no idea of the diffi- 
culties — we’ll wait till my friend Sundon comes back 
from Australia, and consult him.’ But about my engage- 
ment he never really raised a question. ‘You are both 
rather young; but it’s better so than to wait too long; 
besides, you’ll have something worth living for now. We 
must go back to America and make a beginning at once.’ 
So we sailed; but he died on the steamer. At least he 
never knew I was left without a cent.” 

Waveney paused, a restrained, but distinct look of 
still fresh suffering stealing over his face, Ina slid her 
hand into his. 

“That was a hard time for you,” said Felix. 

“Not so bad as you think, though,” Waveney went 
on, “for that’s where Sundon comes in. When we 
were off Quarantine, and the passengers all out on 


Y ESTER DA F. 


99 


deck in their new clothes, and the sim shining, I 
couldn’t stand it, but turned back into my stateroom. 
By and by I heard a knock, and looked up. There 
stood Sundon; he had come on with the health-officer, 
expecting to find my uncle. When I told him how 
things had gone wnth us, he fairly broke down. It 
makes you feel different to a man, once you’ve seen 
him with tears in his eyes, don’t you know.? and that 
was our introduction. After a while, he made me talk 
of myself; would hear all my fe.irs and fancies, promised 
to start me in the world — and kept his word too. I owe 
him every eng'agement I’ve had. As soon as I could, I 
let Ina know my plans, and told her she was free to 
take no more interest in them — ” 

“As if you hadn’t made yourself a hero of romance 
by those new fortunes ! With such added attractions, 
^of course I was not ready to let him go.” 

“ Still we didn’t see our way ahead much. But while 
we were living on letters, my present brother-in-law, 
then only possibly so, was getting up one of his peri- 
odical trees, with the prospect of staying longer than 
usual at that height. The ‘Grasshopper Outfit’ wouldn’t 
output, and was an unquestionable burden. So one fine 
day Ina writes me that she must do something too, and 
will return to her native land as companion of an elderly 
Miss Briggs, who is tired of living alone. We there- 


200 


VESTE/WA Y. 


fore plan a meeting in New York. In the interval of 
the voyage Miss Briggs is persuaded by an old flame, 
unexpectedly met on the steamer, to fix their wedding- 
day for the first convenient time after coming to shore; 
Ina’s occupation being gone, what is left us but to fol- 
low Miss Briggs's example? Of course my great-aunt 
thinks it a shocking imprudence; but the Pringles don’t 
object, and Sundon says I can afford it, as I am sure 
to get on.” 

Felix had made a different decision for himself, and 
meant to keep to it; but it was not in his heart to say 
less than, “I do believe you are right.” 

“And now,” said Ina, “the Grasshopper Outfit begins 
to ‘boom’ and Bob and Nellie threaten me with all sorts 
of wonderful wedding presents. It comes to the same 
thing in the end. When a girl marries a rich man, he 
leaves her always a poor widow, who must help half the 
family connection out of a tiny salary as extra clerk in 
some Department in Washington. I'm not so ambi- 
tious ! ” 

“But as for Sundon,” Waveney began, “I really 
think — to be sure there are old stories — still — ” 

He broke off; he had not really considered before how 
this old friendship would be affected by his marriage, and 
whether, in spite of its claims on him, his wife ought 
to be brought in contact with it. But the moment he 


VliSTERDAY. 


201 


paused, Ina spoke up: “Is Mrs. Sundon seriously ill, 
Doctor ? ” 

‘ ‘ The chances are against her. I am afraid of brain- 
fever. ” 

“Has she any friends in the house.?” 

“ No one.” 

“If there’s anything I can do for her, count upon 
me. Its inhuman to stand olf when people are too 
sick to help themselves. I mean what I say.” 

“I may need you, though I hope not.” 

“It’s no such great thing. If you want me. I’m 
ready. ” 

By morning Ina was indeed required to fulfill her 
offer. 

“Mrs. Sundon is just in that state when one must 
if possible do what a patient wishes,” Felix said, “and 
she begs to see some woman’s face. These stupid servant- 
girls would be worse than nobody. I shall get a nurse 
for her as soon as I can; meanwhile — ” 

“Here I am, as I promised you.” 

“With your aid, we may tide over the day quietly, 
though 1 cannot be certain. Her husband has done the 
best he could, and twice as much as I expected of 
him; but we must have other help now.” 

When she saw Harry, Ina thought he himself looked 
like another patient. “I hoped to have welcomed Tony’s 


202 


VESTE/^DAY. 


wife more as one should a bride,” he began, “but you 
see — ” 

He broke off; for Thyra, lying with her hands pressed 
over her eyes, asked in a strange dull voice, “Doctor, 
who did you find ? I can’t have any one coming here 
that I know.” 

“We have never met, INIrs. Sundon,” said Ina, 

“But you’ll say afterwards they brought you on false 
pretenses, when you hear the whole story.” 

“No, I have heard.” 

Dhyra uncovered her eyes, and studied the new-comer. 

“I like your looks,” she said. “You’re not always 
thinking about them. Are you married ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Of course, or they wouldn’t have let you come. 
Or perhaps you’re a widow.? Sometimes I wish I was.” 

Harry’s face worked uneasily. He had withdrawn out 
of Thyra ’s sight, but kept watching her. 

“No, my husband is alive.” 

“You don’t seem to mind that. Who is he.?” 

“Mr. Waveney.” 

‘ ‘ He always was very civil to me. I hope he’s good 
to you.” 

“Nobody could be better.” 

“I’m so tired of men I I see nothing else. You’re 
a great comfort and a great variety. They’re a good 


YRSTERDA Y, 


203 


deal alike after all; and they’re hard, and rough, and 
sharp. Tell me any woman can be so cutting ! But 
you know them. Perhaps you can tell me what to do 
when they’re bad to one; I’ve tried and tried, and I 
can’t get even with them. Not now though; I’m too 
tired. Suppose we don’t talk any more. I used to 
like talking, but that was before people made fun of 
everything I said. You haven’t laughed at me once 
since you came in; I like that. Harry’s always laugh- 
ing at me. He’s doing it now.” 

Nothing could have been graver, not to say sadder, 
than Sundon’s face. 

“You think he isn’t,” Thyra went on, “don’t you.?” 

“I’m sure he isn’t,” Ina answered. 

“You don’t know him. Did you never read about 
witches when you were a little girl .? He’s one. There’s 
nothing they can’t do. He isn’t really there; he’s having 
a good time in some other place; he leaves his shadow 
behind to laugh at me; but he’s not really there; no, 
no ! ” with a long sob. 

At this, Harry came forward and caught his wife’s 
hand. “Thyra, I am here; I couldn’t laugh, and you 
crying; I couldn’t amuse myself, and you in pain.” 

“Do you think he’s making believe.?” asked Thyra 
of Ina. 

“No,” Ina answered. 


“It’s all true. 


204 


YES TEA' DA V. 


“Well, Harry, since you say so — Now don’t, you’ll 
hurt me; you squeezed my ring into my finger once — isn’t 
there a scar? ” There was not. “ Now go away, and let 
me talk to this lady. I’ve a great deal to tell her; what 
you call women’s trash, about dresses and things; you 
won’t want to hear. Is he gone? Come back; I want 
to say — what was it? I forget.” 

Through the day Thyra would not let Ina leave her. 
By night, however, she knew no one any longer. For 
days she remained in a state to alarm the watchers to the 
utmost for her; for weeks, even after the balance had dip- 
ped in her favor, and it was plain she would neither die 
nor go mad, she still was wretchedly feeble and helpless. 
The nurse turned out a very good one; but once the 
worst was over, there was much Ina could do, and she 
did not spare herself. 

Felix saw Thyra out of danger, before he returned to 
San Francisco; he could not wait for her complete recov- 
ery, as that bid fair to take months, or even years; but he 
did not go till he assured himself that Harry understood 
the gravity of the matter. Whether he would continue to 
be the devoted husband as long as there was need of it, 
was still beyond the Doctor’s power not to doubt; but one 
might reasonably hope for the best. One conversation 
between the two men had certainly pointed that way, and 
was encouraging otherwise. 


YESTRRDA Y. 


205 


“You have made yourself loyal and unsuspicious friends 
in the Waveneys,” Felix said. 

“Do you think I shall lose them.?” Harry asked. 

“ I hope you know how to keep them.” 

“You don’t think I could mean anything unfair to that 
boy and girl, do you .? Such a couple have a right to the 
best treatment from the world; and if the world don’t do 
its duty by them, anyhow I will.” 

“I believe you; and elsewhere too.” 

“But don’t you think Thyra is better.?” 

“ Yes; but her life is still in your hands, and may be so 
for a long time to come.” 

“I'll remember.” 

Felix gave Florence a brief account only of his length- 
ened absence, which in Florence’s letter to Grace became 
in turn little more than news of the Waveneys; still there 
was enough to make Grace annoyed that her friends should 
be involved with the Sundons. She wondered also if any- 
thing could have been said of her; but she would not ask. 
She had no reason however to fear. Waveney knew her 
so little that he did not happen to speak of her to Felix; 
and Felix, having really more news of her from Florence 
than Tony could command, had no cause to question 
him. Besides, the Doctor wished to keep that image un- 
disturbed by his present surroundings. It was bad enough 
to have heard that speech of Sundon’s; impudent fiction of 


206 


Y ESTER DA V. 


a tipsy fancy as it must be, it implied some former ac- 
quaintance, some inexplicable carelessness or folly of 
dyne’s that had allowed the two to meet. But of course 
there was no question what part Grace must have taken. 

Harry bid Felix good-bye with a mixture of emotions; 
gratitude for his saving Thyra, good feeling for his having 
shown himself an understanding friend, and relief at es- 
caping from so keen a judgment exercised from a stand- 
point so different from one’s own. “The Doctor’s mther 
too much for me,” he thought; “still I should like to see 
more of him. He’s a good fellow in his quiet way; and a 
man, notwithstanding his youth was crushed out of him so, 
poor soul. Yet if ever he crosses my path again, it will be 
unlucky for me somehow — Bosh ! I mustn’t be getting • 
superstitious.” 


CHAPTER XII. 


F our years more, and some months, have passed 
since Felix Belden turned his face again towards 
California. It is a bright Saturday afternoon in New 
York; cold and windy indeed out of doors, since Janu- 
ary reigns, but warm and sheltered in the theaters, where 
the- matinees are going on at this hour. 

We once had reason, the old playgoers say, to com- 
pare our actors to the famous cook who refused to show 
her art in its perfection when there were “only ladies'’ 
in the family where she served. But these veterans now 
confess that the afternoon audiences do not find them- 
selves neglected because they are largely feminine and 
apt to be timid in the matter of applause. In the way 
of numbers certainly they are not trifling. All around 
New^ York, Saturday is the great occasion, one might 
call it the festival, of the suburban woman. She comes 
in by ferry or train in the morning, meeting her neigh- 
bors on the way and having a bit of chat with them; she 
shops till lunch-time, — and shopping may be made very 


2o8 


YESTERDAY. 


pleasant; — she lunches, now with a town-dwelling friend, 
now at some satisfactory restaurant; she has her stroll in 
those Broadway neighborhoods,* where one’s eyes turn 
from the gay and varied crowd to the shop-windows and 
back, amused and brightened; and then her matinee, 
in a theater, light, bright, fresh-looking, comfortable, 
easy to get in and out of (how easy one does not appre- 
ciate except by ventures in the bewildering labyrinths 
which lead to orchestra chairs and balconies abroad, spe- 
cially in London); where (unless at the opera) she does 
not feel that she has paid too much; and where she may 
take her daughter, and does. 

Benson’s company appear to-day in a piece which 
seems likely to have a long run, from its many good 
qualities. Sundon and Waveney both have important 
parts in it, though Sundon’s is the best 

Some of Waveney’s acquaintance wondered that he 
was willing to play second to Sundon; but Waveney 
knew well enough that a rivalry between them would 
only tell against himself, and that Harry’s neighborhood 
gave him often opportunities that one might fail of with 
an inferior companion. His own range was not a wide 
one. He could play his own part (a thing all the world 
has not the gift of doing, by the way, either on or off 
the stage), of an easy gentlemanly young fellow; he had 
besides a marked success in anything requiring gro- 


Y ESTER DA K 


209 


tesque but wholesome humor; but powerful, impas- 
sioned, or pathetic effects were beyond him at present. 
The weight of the pieces would come upon Harry, and 
he carried it as if it were nothing. He was certain of 
popular favor, and the assurance did not spoil him; he 
was too thorough an artist now to be swayed from his 
course by praise or blame that did not tally with his 
own convictions, no matter how keenly he enjoyed ap- 
preciation or suffered from misconception. All this had 
been a gradual and continuous growth, uninterrupted 
since first he set foot on the stage. Outside of his pro- 
fession, however, his life had undergone a great_^change 
since his encounter with Felix Belden. 

Thyra’s illness had left her with broken health for a 
long time, as Felix had predicted. She had needed con- 
stant, patient, loving care, and she had had it. In the be- 
ginning this had been rather perforce with Harry; but he 
had made himself serve her till it grew easy. After all, 
he thought, what else had he to give his spare time to.^ 
If she were a foolish child, grown people owe something 
to children, and it is unfair to be unkind to the poor 
things. She had been very near death through him; 
now he had that 'rare thing, a chance of undoing a 
work done amiss. At first she had tried him a good 
deal, but even then her frightened efforts not to vex 
him were so pathetic that his irritation seemed inhu- 


210 . 


YESTERDAY. 


man, confronted with them. By degrees he grew to 
feel her no trouble, and at length to be fond of her 
in a new way. His old passion for her was gone, and 
a real sympathetic union of themselves was hardly to be 
expected; but he had a great tenderness for the helpless 
creature so entirely dependent on him, and could not 
bear to do anything that should disturb ever so little 
the rooted trust she now showed in him. So it was 
that Harry Sundon became a domestic man. 

This state of life was no unhappy one, especially to a 
man who, where not led by professional ambition, never 
looked ahead, but lived on day by day. If he thought 
of the future, as one will when one begins to grow older 
(he was full forty now), he foresaw no change. Probably 
he would outlast Thyra; but he meant to keep her in 
this world as long as possible. He had no fears for her 
to-day; during the last half-year, his devotion had been 
rewarded by a great improvement in her health; she 
declared that “she felt as well as anybody, and could 
do as much, if she had it_ to do” — which he took care 
she did not. 

The past was little less present with Hariy than the 
future. He thought occasionally *of Tyne, much as 
he remembered the more distant image of his father; 
those two, who had been interested in his fortunes 
when their own were so waning, were not to be for- 


YESTERDAY. 


2II 


gotten. But there was another figure which he first 
had driven from his mind, and then had thought it 
vanished of itself. He believed it quite effaced; what 
was his surprise on that Saturday to rediscover it clear 
and distinct ! 

“I expect a critic this afternoon who will worry me 
a bit,^' said Waveney, as they were walking over to the 
theater together. (They lived in the same apartment 
house, the Sundons on the second floor, the Waveneys 
on the third. Ina was Thyra's friend, in the same way 
as she had been; and considering Mrs. Sundons invalid 
condition and secluded life, the world did not take it 
much amiss.) 

“Why, who, Tony.? You ought to be hardened to 
every kind of public by this time.” 

“My cousin, Grace Delahay, who knows more than 
most people.” 

“The lady from Texas.?” 

Grace did not correspond with the Waveneys, and 
they knew little of her; but now and then, in the 
course of these four years, her name had been men- 
tioned, and Harry had gathered that she was still with 
the Romaines at 'San Antonio. He had never given 
the Waveneys any hint of his former acquaintance with 
her, nor, he believed, — and rightly, — had Thyra. 

“Not from Texas any longer,” was the answer. “The 


212 


ve5;terda V. 


Romaines are stationed in Washington now. The daugh- 
ther — a pretty little pet of sixteen or so; Td like one of 
my girls to grow up in that style — is here on a visit to 
her grandmother, the handsome old lady who’s just moved 
into the house opposite us with the high steps; and they 
sent Grace on with her pupil, to give them both a va- 
cation. I met her in the street a day or two ago, the 
first I knew of her being in town. She wrote me such 
a lovely letter when my uncle Mont died, I ought not to 
have lost sight of her; but I’m no correspondent. Ina 
and I went over yesterday to see her, and of course Ina 
was full of the play. So they declared they should be 
there, and you’ll see them. I wish I could learn your 
trick of looking all round the house and nSver getting 
out or losing yourself; I shall have to take their coming 
for granted.” 

“How shall I know your cousin.!^” 

“Brown hair and eyes, rather tall, graceful — but you 
saw her photograph I think; Ina had it on the mantel- 
piece in that little painted frame. She’s prettier, but 
its a likeness; she gave it to Ina yesterday.” 

“Yes, I saw it.” This was a fib, for Harry had not 
noticed it at all; to be sure it had been covered up by 
another picture leaning against it, one that Waveney 
took great pride in, of his two girls. 

“Grace is a much more attractive woman than when 


YESTERDA Y. 


213 


I remember her first,” Waveney went on. “I used 
to think her sharp and thin, not to say angular; but 
she has softened and filled out, till she is really charm- 
ing in every way. I’d like to be sure that she won’t 
set me down third-rate. You are safe, even if she hadn’t 
seen you before, which she has. She spoke of you with 
quite a touch of enthusiasm.” 

Harry changed the subject; he wanted — why, he could 
not tell — to hear more, but was afraid of showing an in- 
terest inconsistent with the appearance of knowing noth- 
ing of its cause. He wondered notwithstanding what at- 
titude Grace would take towards him and Thyra; for in 
the position of all three in regard to the Waveneys, some- 
thing must inevitably be said or done. Whatever it was, 
under the circumstances, it would be only fair to bear 
her out in it. It would be impossible to expect Ina’s 
kindness ; she who treated Thyra as if she had had 
no past, as far as Thyra, who dreaded compromising 
such a friend, would allow. Still Grace, in spite of that 
one moment on the steamer, was not a woman to show 
her feelings. What he seriously dreaded, however, was 
a misunderstanding that should make Grace believe it 
right to try and bring about a coolness between himself 
and the Waveneys. He saw too plainly the theory of 
him that she was likely to hold; and how could he con- 
vince her in time that it was now a mistaken one ? He 


214 


YESTERDAY. 


had always thought of Ina as a cherished younger sister: 
if Grace were to make her suspicious of him — cause Thyra 
to lose her one friend! — And it would be his own fault 
if that happened, too. 

Meanwhile all was not tranquil at the theater; Benson 
had an anxiety, which he took the first chance of con- 
fiding to the two actors. 

^ “We’re only too likely to have a panic this afternoon. 

It’s in the air. After last week at and last night at 

houses are getting awfully skittish. The play’s against 
us just now. The end of the second act leaves people 
all wrought up, and there’s no letting ’em down easier 
without spoiling the effect and making the papers say 
we’re falling off and getting flat. Then if a pin drops 
between the acts, they’ll all jump and rush. And even 
if we tide over that, the third act — something’s sure to 
happen there unless you two can fix it. You begin it to- 
gether; I depend upon you. I daren’t speak to anybody 
else, for if we don’t keep all as cool as cool, the house’ll 
nose it out.” 

Sundon laughed; he did not believe much in Ben- 
son’s alarms, and knew himself ready for accidents. 
Waveney took it less lightly, but it did not weigh hard 
on hinr either. 

When Harry came on, he had forgotten about Grace; 
but all at once he caught sight of her. How she had 


YESTERDAY. 


215 


changed for the better, to be sure ! Tyne was right in 
his prophecy that she would grow more charming with 
years. The pretty little schoolgirl at her side, to whom 
she turned and spoke in that winning way, was not to 
compare with her. She* showed a completeness, a com- 
posure that yet was full of promise of quick feeling, that 
he had not expected. 

By the time these observations were made, he became 
conscious that Grace was studying him too; whether for 
his acting alone, or with regard to himself besides, he 
could not tell, though he feared he could not escape the 
last. It was a relief that he did not play the villain of 
the piece this time; she would probably believe he rep- 
resented such characters con amore. Was the revulsion 
of their last meeting as powerful as ever with her .? Sup- 
pose they encountered each other by accident at the 
Waveneys, would she treat him so again } At least he 
would meet her differently; nothing in the world should 
make him seem familiar now. Oh, this was ridiculous; 
what did it matter, if she did not choose to forgive him 
like other people .? But then who, after Lang and Thyra, 
nad so much to forgive.? 

These flickering secret flames of thought came and 
went, but made no impression on his acting any more 
than Benson’s worries; unless he might feel something 
of the irritation Grace’s presence used to cause him. 


2i6 ' 


YES 7EKDA Y. 


coming now not as a contradiction, but as a spur. Cer- 
tainly he was at his best to-day. People who often saw 
him play declared he was never mechanical and never 
did exactly the same thing twice; this afternoon they 
noted variations which were all improvements. 

The second act reached its stirring close, the curtain 
fell. Benson s fears at first seemed not likely to be jus- 
tified; but as the curtain began to rise again — which it 
did on an empty scene, where the performers were to 
enter singly — two or three people got up and went slowly 
out; then two or three more, with quicker steps. At 
that the heads of the audience turned away from the stage 
and towards the doors; some bent together with a whis- 
pered “Don't you smell smoke.?" then all at once, with 
an alarmed buzz and rustle, the whole house was on its 
feet. An outward push was beginning in the crowd, 
but it stopped short as Benson came out to the foot- 
lights. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, nothing’s the matter, I assure 
you positively; please sit down." 

Somehow the audience were not quite ready to believe 
Benson; his important coolness had unconsciously an air 
of being put on. The stir was checked for the moment, 
indeed; calls of “sit down "echoed through the house, 
and the front rows began to settle themselves quietly; 
but many people farther back were still standing, and 


YESTEAWA Y. 


217 


some jumped up again in the second between Benson’s 
going aside and Harry Sundon’s stepping forward. Harry 
was to begin the scene with a phrase of soliloquy; now, 
taking his easy tone with the deprecatory touch in it, he 
added this preface: 

“Ladies and gentlemen, after Mr. Benson’s assurance, 
the only reason that could lose us your support w'ould be 
that we are boring you; now I do not think we have 
treated you so unfairly as that, and I believe you will 
bear me out in my conviction.” 

Thereupon, as required by the play, he turned to ad- 
dress Waveney, who then entered. He could scarcely 
hear the sound of his own voice for the applause that rang 
out to answer him; and by the time Waveney ’s speech 
began, the crowd was listening without thought of further 
alarm. 

“ I wonder,” said Waveney, when they were behind the 
scenes again, “how Grace took it. I didn’t dare look 
round much, for if I had got out, it might have spoilt 
everything after all.” 

“Then you didn’t see?” 

“Did you?” 

“Yes. Miss Delahay — isn’t that her name.? — sat still 
and looked as if nothing was the matter really. The 
pretty schoolgirl squeezed her hand once, turned pale and 
stared about, but kept in her place.” 


2i8 


YESTERDA K. 


“Little Miss Helen has plenty of pluck; her father’s 
own child.” 

“Just so; IVe heard of the Major in my own time. 
But if the old lady’s his mother, it’s a pity she’s not more 
like him. His daring in the war upset her nerves once 
for all, maybe; anyhow, she was on her feet, and all but 
out into the aisle, when Miss Delahay turned and spoke 
to her, quick but steady, took hold of her, and drew her 
back again. With that that whole row and more subsided. 
It made things a deal easier for you and me. Miss Dela- 
hay ought to have a vote of thanks from the whole house, 
by rights. You must make her our compliments, any- 
wa}'. ” 

As soon as he could get away, Waveney went home to 
to see that his wife and Thyra had heard no exaggerated 
story of the panic; Sundon was detained on business, but 
one could easily answer for both. When he came to his 
own door, there was Grace ahead of him, on the same 
errand. 

“ I won’t come in, since you are here,” she said. “ I 
am due at Mrs. Romaine’s; we have dinner company. 
Tell Ina I will come to-morrow.” 

“Good-bye then, you best of aids; if you hadn’t done 
your part as moderator, I should have a story to tell, in- 
stead of getting it nicely spoilt; you have the thanks of all 
of us, and more when we meet again.” 


YESTERDAY. 


219 


**1!” she laughed as she went. 

Grace had named no time, but Ina somehow under- 
stood she should not see her till late in the Sunday after- 
noon. Instead, Grace made her appearance quite early. 
Now Ina was expecting Harry and Thyra, who had a way ot 
looking in at the Waveneys’ for a few minutes before their 
Sunday afternoon walk. This was embarrassing: the con- 
versation at the Romaines’ concerning Harry had only taken 
his professional qualities into account, and no mention 
had been made of Thyra at all. Helen Romaine s pres- 
ence had been a check on discussion, such as Ina felt she 
ought to have with Grace before venturing to bring her in 
contact with the Sundons. Yet this new kinswoman 
seemed of all people the one with whom a matter of scan- 
dal were most unsuitable to talk over. Besides, Ina feared 
Grace would disapprove her own conduct; and though she 
should not change it for that^ the idea hurt her. Still she 
got up her courage to say at once, 

“Grace, you may happen to meet the Sundons here; 
unless you tell me immediately you wish not, and then 
perhaps I can manage to prevent it. You mayn’t know, 
but their marriage was a scandal. Still I can assure you, 
ever since Thyra has been Mr. Sundon’s wife, she has been 
perfectly well conducted; she has suffered a great deal and 
is sincerely penitent, I do believe — ” 

With that there was a timid knock at the door. 


220 


YESTERDAY. 


“There she is!” said Ina. 

“Tell her to come in,” said Grace. 

“Come in!” Ina called. 

Thyra, advancing with a smile for her hostess, drew 
back again, flushing, stumbling, with hardly breath to 
exclaim, “Why, it is you ! ” as Grace rose. 

Ina had no reason to be alarmed. Grace saw Thyra, 
worn and faded still in spite of partial recovery, and 
painfully shy and uncertain in manner instead of incon- 
siderately open. She did not stop to ask if this unhap- 
py self-consciousness were shown towards the world or 
only towards the one that knew most; she went to 
Thyra, holding out both her hands. 

“Yes, it is I; you are not mistaken; I am glad to 
be not forgotten.” 

“Oh, I oughtn’t to speak to you again — Tm not fit 
to come near you since — ” 

“If Ina receives you, should not that be enough for 
me.? In all these years she must know you better than I.” 

Thyra coifld not speak. Grace and Ina made her sit 
down between them. 

“You two are too good to me,” she murmured at 
last; “I don’t know what to do.” Then to Grace: 
“Are you going to stay long in town.? You mustn’t 
come to see me, or I to see you; Mrs. Romaine wouldn’t 
like it, and it might make you trouble. But I shall see 


YESTERDAY. 


221 


you here sometimes. You’re not changed at all, but 
I — Don’t say anything, or I shall get crying, and I 
shan’t be fit to go out — Who’s that now } ” 

“Only Tony,” said Ina. 

Tony it was; but Harry Sundon also with him. Grace 
had no time to prepare herself before her cousin, look- 
ing quickly round and thinking he understood matters, 
introduced his companion. 

There was no escape; but, to Harry at least, none 
seemed needed. Grace bowed, and said “very happy 
to meet you,” which if it meant nothing, at least proved 
she was not going to cut him this time. He answered, 
“Ah, it is you. Miss Delahay, that we have to thank for 
your help yesterday afternoon; I saw what an admirable 
influence you have over those about you.” 

“Your own reaches much farther; if you praise mine, 
yours deserves much more from us.” 

This was said not as one makes a compliment, yet 
not unwillingly. The conversation then became general, 
and dealt with trifles, though in a half-seriouS’ tone. Soon 
Harry declared that Thyra must have her walk before 
the sun sank a*hy lower; and they took their leave. He 
would rather have outstaid Grace, but thought it not 
best. 

Grace gave a long sigh when they were out of hearing; 
before the Waveneys she would not put her mingled feel- 


222 


YESTERDAY. 


ings into words. In their presence and poor Thyra’s, she 
had not felt able to take up the position, towards Harry 
she had held at their last meeting. Once the change 
was made, the conviction dawned on her that Tyne 
had judged the case more justly than she. Besides, was 
there not some difference in Harry.? To-day he seemed 
really like a gentleman, not as if he only played that 
part when he fancied it. But now Ina was saying, 
“So you used to know her.? How small the world 
is ! What was she like then .? ” 

“A pretty child,’’ said Grace. “Poor thing ! Helen 
Romaine is twice the woman already that she was in those 
days.” 

“You never knew Sundon, I suppose.?” asked Wave- 
ney; a question Grace was glad to hear. She had dreaded 
Harry’s version of their acquaintance; that he had made 
none was reassuring. 

“I have met him sometimes,” she admitted. “Your 
uncle and Mr. Sundon were great friends, and they were 
together constantly before poor Mont went abroad. But 
I did not think he would remember me. By the way, 
how does he treat his wife .? ” * 

“ There couldn’t be a better husband,” said Ina warmly. 
“If people say anything to the contrary, it’s only one of 
those stories they’re always making up about all of us. 
If there are any other people that the world talks more of 


YRSTRRDA Y. 


223 


and knows less of than actors and actresses, I should like 
to know it.” 

“It’s possible, to be sure, between ourselves,” Tony 
allowed, “that he mayn’t have been always quite as .de- 
voted, before that fever she had, when Ina and Doctor 
Belden helped take care of her; but since — ” 

‘ ‘ Do you know Doctor Belden too } ” Grace could not 
keep herself from interrupting. “Florence wrote me 
something — how was it } ” 

“Don’t we.?” answered Ina. “Why, he was one of 
my California friends. One of the best and cleverest men 
that ever lived. It’s a shame he don’t get along faster, but 
he will yet. He’s had so much to pull him back; he has 
even tried to pay olf his father’s debts. To be sure the 
Ensors, who were the chief creditors, wouldn’t take a 
cent. ” 

‘ ‘ So Florence says. ” 

“They ought to be generous, for since they came to San 
Francisco they are a hundred times better off than he is; 
people who can afford to keep such horses, and so many 
of them ! . Now about Mrs. Sundon, it happened this 
way — ” and Ina told the story as far as she knew it; im- 
perfectly enough, fortunately for her good opinion of 
Harry, for Felix had never enlightened her or any one as 
to the earlier part of it, and she believed the attempt at 
suicide a mere fiction of Thyra’s delirium. The strong 


224 


YRSTERDA V. 


point of this version, therefore, was Felix’s admirable man- 
agement of the case, which did not fail to interest her 
hearer. 

Grace, through her correspondence with Florence, 
could know Felix always the same, as much to be be- 
lieved in and relied on as at first; but this new testi- 
mony to his worth, given with a living voice, not the 
second-hand of pen and paper, lent her strong com- 
fort, and even a sense of physical well-being and 
warmth, like a kindly fire on a winter’s day. True, 
Ina had not seen him for several years, while the last 
mail had brought Grace a California letter; still this 
account of him seemed the freshest. She had felt on 
their first meeting that Ina and she were to be friends; 
but so much more was as unexpected as welcome. As 
for the Sundons, that should not interfere. Since it 
was plain that Sundon respected these transparent and 
genial natures, Grace would not disturb them; she 
would bury her recollections and just repulsions within 
herself, as long as he gave no cause for fresh disgust. 

Meanwhile Thyra and Harry had been talking of her. 

“I didn’t think she would be there, or 1 wouldn’t have 
gone,” said Thyra; “but she was just the same to me as 
she used to be; and to you too.” 

“She may know how to forget; she certainly knows 
how to behave.” 


YESTERDAY, 


225 


‘‘I didn’t remember she was so pretty; prettier than she 
was before; she hasn’t gone off the way I have.” 

‘‘You’ll catch up to her yet, puss; you don’t know how 
much better you are looking this winter: people get so 
used to their own faces. I’ve only just found out how old 
and fat I am.” 

“Nonsense, Harry, you’re nothing of the kind. You 
talk as if you were that man going round the corner 
there — ” a grotesque ancient mountain of a German-born 
citizen, at whose appearance it was impossible not to be 
amused. Harr}'^ certainly was not boyish in figure or face, 
but he was far yet from such an age, and not likely to 
reach such ponderosity. 

He met the Waveneys again with some anxiety; but his 
keenest watchfulness could detect no change or coolness 
in their manner to him. The only thing that suggested 
an allusion to former days was a casual mention that Mrs. 
Bishop (with whom they were not on very good terms) 
was reported not to be pleased with Florida, where she 
was wintering. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


H elen ROMAINE had her own young companions, 
with whom she spent most of her time; so Grace, 
being free, saw a great deal of Ina. At the Waveneys, 
she sometimes met the Sundons, though always in the 
same accidental way. and not markedly often. Thyra, 
if she came in, frequently slipped out, fearing to disturb 
the new friendship. Harry did not follow his wife’s lead; 
Grace interested him too much, though in a fashion by 
no means a thorough pleasure. How well he should 
have liked it, to be able to meet such a charming wo- 
man as she was now, without any recollections between 
them; easily, as an agreeable stranger ! Instead, he must 
feel a disposition to justify himself and a conviction that 
the effort was hopeless; an obligation to appear at his 
best, and a belief that it was no use. “As long as we 
live,” he said to himself, “she will think me a shabby 
fellow.” Yet once or twice, dwelling on some saying 
of hers, he imagined she might have forgiven him. To 
ask her directly if she had, though, he feared would 


YESTERDAY. 


227 


seem to her a fresh insult; and he could make no cer> 
tain guess at her feelings, still screened from him by 
her old reserve. Had he really ever seen her without 
it.? And even then — Would nothing ever happen to 
prove that she had any strong emotions of her own, 
not merely sympathy or repulsion towards others.? Why 
he wanted to know that, he did not ask himself; but he 
was soon as eager to settle that question, as the other. 

One day Ina was asking Grace what she thought of 
a great musician from abroad, who gave “piano recitals" 
that winter. Now music was the thing of all others in 
which Grace showed most interest. She played well 
herself; Harry had heard her long ago at ]\Irs. Bish- 
op’s, and of late at the Waveney’s, though she was shy 
about it, for fear, he could see, of tiring an audience 
rather indifferent. He knew nothing of music himself; 
but he liked to watch her face when she was at the 
piano; she seemed a little off her guard then. Now, 
as she was describing to Ina what she had heard, it 
was plain it affected her strongly. Harry determined 
he would see if the musician did not make her drop 
her mask for once. 

He carried out his plan, assuring himself of the time 
Grace would go, and of a seat where he could observe 
her without her noticing it. Thyra was to have ac- 
companied him; nothing but Chopin’s music was to be 


228 


YESTERDAY. 


played, and though she had thought the other concerts 
were too “classical” in programme, she believed there 
were to be pretty waltzes and marches this once, that 
anybody could “understand.” But she had a bad head- 
ache, and he went alone. He was there befpre Grace; 
but she came in soon with the Romaines and some 
other ladies to whom she was talking so busily that 
she looked his way without seeing him. In a few mo- 
ments the concert began, and she was absorbed in the 
music. 

Even without her, Harry thought, the occasion would 
not have been a dull one. The audience interested him, 
to begin with; it was peculiar. There were few men; the 
day, being early in the week, excluded with its business 
claims many of the Saturday afternoon people besides those 
who would not care to be present now. The tickets were 
a trifle high-priced; and though there appeared a strong 
force of young girls and women costumed with the painful 
care which tells of small means, — Harry, who was much 
better off, felt some compunction, thinking how they must 
have saved out of their earnings to pay for their seats and 
the scores, the leaves of which they turned so cautiously, 
to avoid the distracting rustle of an opera libretto, — the 
majority was one of handsomely-dressed and well-dressed 
women; not vulgar show, but absolute elegance prevailing. 
At first Harry supposed these had come for the fashion of 


Y ESTER DA Y. 


229 


the thing; but he soon read his mistake in their faces. 
Many of them he had seen before, with their street look 
of intelligence and readiness for life. Now the keen feel- 
ing hidden under thought, the fine nervous emotions, in- 
clining to sadness, but full of tremulous pleasure, stole 
forth in those delicate lips, in those brilliant eyes. Not 
such strong and lively excitement, perhaps, as he could 
cause in his own audiences; but something subtle and fine- 
strained, suggesting an unknown world; the sight of such 
sentiment was in itself a new experience. 

Harry had been inclined at first to laugh at the musi- 
cian who wrought this -spell; he was such a singular being, 
with his odd face— fine in effect, but irregular and unusual 
in detail — framed in a mane of long dusky hair that he 
shook back when he made that queer bow, the motion of 
which was like a wild creature's stretching itself, and his 
strange walk, setting his feet down flat as the bears do. In 
fiery passages he swayed and trembled violently all over, and 
clawed the piano as if he would tear out the strings. But 
when that everyday instrument, from which most people 
expect no marvels, yielded under his hand sounds so in- 
explicably 'beautiful and of such inexplicable influence 
over his hearers, the man was too powerful to be absurd. 
Here was something to be recognized as a great and gen- 
uine force. Even when, in his resting-times, he stood 
by the piano, half turning away from his audience, and 


230 


YESTERDAY. 


looking up at the ceiling in a weary excitement, it was 
too natural an attitude to call for the blame of affectation. 

All this, however, Harry noticed only by the way. 
Grace was his main study. She was at her best in every 
detail of costume and appearance. Her dress was of that 
dark wine-red which becomes almost every woman, but 
her wearing it made it seem to him as if no other had a 
right to it but she; her bonnet had feathers of soft white 
and gray shades emphasizing “the sweet brownness of her 
eyes ” and hair. Those eyes now sparkled, now grew dim; 
once she put her handkerchief to them, after a tender thril- 
ling strain, full of regrets and longings. Her lips were set a 
moment, then parted when a stirring cry, a melody of fire, 
rang out from the keys, as if she too had uttered it. Her 
color went and came; she made no effort to control her 
face or hide her emotions. This did not make her singu- 
lar among the women about her; they were all in the same 
case. What was special to her was a certain rapt expres- 
sion, the music seeming to lift her out of herself into an- 
other region. Sometimes there was a far-off look in her 
eyes, as if she saw some image beyond the range of actual 
vision; again they shone strangely, as if the imagined crea- 
ture unknown to others had come up close at hand with a 
kindly greeting. Once she caught Harry’s glance, and 
-bowed absently; his fears that she should think him impu- 
dently staring were dispelled, but on the other hand he 


YESTERDA K 


231 


had an annoying sense of being neglected; then he was 
angry with himself for a conceited fellow; and then he for- 
got everything but watching her. 

When the concert was over, — whether it had been long 
or short, he could not tell, — he rose as she did; but then 
he drew back and waited till there was no chance of his re- 
joining her. He had discovered more than lie expected 
or wished, — not concerning her, but himself. 

“Well, how did you like it.?” said Thyra, when he 
came home. “Was it stupid, or was it nice.?” 

“Neither; it was wonderful. I don’t think I ever heard 
a piano before; and now I never want to hear another, for 
nobody can make it the same thing as this man.” 

Yet he knew the impression of the music and the musi- 
cian would grow dim with him; while that other, the one 
not to be spoken, he feared might remain. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


T he next morning, as Harry left the house, going 
to a rehearsal, he saw Grace walking along the 
street just in front of him. He came up with her as 
she stopped to post a letter in a corner box, — one of 
those missives to Florence that Felix would see; but 
Harry knew nothing of that. She was alone, and some 
isolating atmosphere seemed to encircle her. Yet the 
sense of remoteness he felt was a relief to him. Yes- 
terday she had unconsciously started him on a train of 
thought he knew to be dangerous. Long ago he had 
discovered that the generalization about duties steadily 
performed becoming pleasures and second nature through 
habit had a much less universal application than the 
common run of theorists believe, and that quite as often 
the converse took place; the spirit, compelled by cir- 
cumstances into action alien to it, heaping up impulses 
of resistance which, once strong enough, broke out in 
some revenge on itself or others. To a man of his tem- 
perament, this last looked much the most likely result 


Y ESTER DA V. 


233 


of the two. Notwithstanding, he had never applied it 
to his own case before; and even now he was struggling 
against his interpretation of it. But there was Grace, 
and their ways were in the Scime direction for a few 
streets; if it had not been so, would he not have changed 
his, no matter how cold she seemed.? 

How was it too that soon they came to speak of Tyne, 
who had not been mentioned between them on any for- 
mer meeting ? He must have begun it, but she had not 
avoided it. They had turned into a cross-street all of 
dwelling-houses, where at that hour there was scarcel)%a 
passer-by; certainly no one near when he found himself 
saying: 

“I never had such a friend; he understood me bet- 
ter than I do myself; and if I had done what he meant 
for me I should be more- of a man than I am now. I 
should have loved you.” 

A speech worse than mistaken ! He saw her harden 
as once he had seen her before. “You do not change I ” 
she said. • . • 

“Don’t misunderstand!” he answered, appealingly; 
it was not the same case he was pleading now, indeed. 
“Its only too natural that you should; I have given you 
reason enough formerly for you to think 1 could insult 
you; but I cannot, for all that. You go away — to-mor- 
row, is it.? I don’t know when I shall see you again. 


234 


YESTERDAY. 


Might you not forgive my betraying an enthusiasm for 
you that expects nothing?” 

“If you wish to keep it so, we had better bid good- 
bye at once.” She was not ungentle, yet there was a de- 
cision in her manner that hurt him cruelly. “I go 
to-morrow; that is my part, and I believe you know 
yours. Good-bye.” I'hey had come to an avenue; she 
turned up it, while his road lay down it. 7'he bright 
winter sun shone for both, but with a difference. 

He was rather snappish at rehearsal; Benson wondered 
if®he had been drinking again; but by the time he reached 
home he had recovered his temper. 

“Grace Delahay has been over to bid Ina good-bye,” 
Thyra said when he came in. “I’m sorry to have her 

go-” 

“Don’t you feel well? ’’said he, resolutely putting 
that other image aside. “You don’t look as bright as 
you can most da 3 's.” 

“Oh, I’m well enough.” 

On the morrow, when he was again coming home, he 
thought there would he no harm in knowing if Grace 
really had left town. He rang at Mrs. Romaine’s door 
and inquired of the servant. Yes, Miss Delahay and 
Miss Romaine had started for Washington that morning. 
He went into his own home with a blank feeling. 

Thyra was sitting by the fire, with the photograph of 


YESTERDA Y. 


235 


the little Waveney girls, which their mother had given 
her, in her hand; she was studying it more intently than 
she often did anything. 

“A pretty picture that is,” said he, taking a chair 
beside her; “much better than those things generally.” 

“They are so pretty themselves,” Thyra said. “I 
wish either of them was ours. Do you think,” shyly, 
“you’d like that.?” 

“Why shouldn’t I.? But Madam Ina might object.” 

“But — -^uch a one of our own — it’s possible — it’s more 
than possible — it’s likely to be.” 

“There’s something to think ahead about then, dear.” 


CHAPTER XV. 


I F the every-day course of Harry’s life had been a mo- 
ment disturbed to his eyes, it now seemed more fixed 
than ever. But who can guard against all accidents, oi 
limit their results.? A slip on the stairs, a trifling chill, 
may happen to anybody, and the consequence be un- 
noticeable, yet for Thyra this nothing meant too much; 
the loss of her child, then her own death. 

Harry found himself alone in the world, at first with a 
bitter sense of want in having nothing left him of the 
clinging affection that had long been a part of his life; 
then rose up a feeling of freedom, which seemed in- 
human to him, but irresistible. He might love Grace 
now without question. That thought, once it shaped 
itself, was always with him. No one suspected it; he 
had so much at stake that he grew very cautious. It 
would not do to move too fast; if he had been shocked 
at himself at first, how should he appear to Grace, if 
he spoke early .? above all after those few words at their 
last meeting.? So he waited, outwardly very quiet. 


YESTERDAY. 


237 


though many a day he felt as if the next must be the 
last of his silence. 

The Romaines left Washington for the summer, going 
to the White Mountains; Grace was of their party. The 
Waveneys, during the hot weather, established themselves 
in a nook of the Maine coast; Harry joined them. 
At first the house at the beach was quite full, but as 
the summer began to wane, people thinned out. As 
soon as there was room, Ina undertook to carry out a 
long-cherished idea, and wrote to Grace, proposing that 
she should come and spend at least a week by the sea. 

When Harry heard of this, he took alarm at once. 
“If she should refuse on my account! She will.” He 
too wrote a letter, which went by the same mail as Ina’s. 

‘ ‘ I know beforehand how you will receive any word 
from me, with what a shrinking, a repulsion; 1 know 
my conduct has been too often fairly liable to the worst 
interpretations (though yet they would have been mis- 
taken sometimes); and yet to-day I have to write, ‘Do 
not stay away because I am here." It pledges you to 
nothing, and it means everything to me. I cannot bear 
to have you draw back; if you will not come, I must 
follow my letter. Believe me, if Thyra had lived, I 
should never have troubled you; and I don't think 
even that I should have dared to ask you to be a 
mother to a child of hers; but now I have nothing left 


238 


YKSTERDA F. 


me. Do not think of me as having wished for the 
chance of being free to love you; this once you would 
judge me too hardly. Think only that I do love you, 
and not as I ever loved before; for you are above all 
other women, and a different love is yours by right. 
This sounds hackneyed enough, but it is as real as 
the sunrise, an old story that is always new and that 
one^s life depends on. I know you will not hear of this 
at once, if you do at all; still do not dismiss me at first 
and by letter. I cannot take a refusal in writing only, 
or now. But should you come, even then I only ask for 
time; I will say no more till you have seen that I am 
not what I was, and that you can forgive me the past.” 

He scribbled off this missive as fast as he could; he 
was not at all satisfied with it, but did not dare retouch 
it. “Suppose I did, and she thought I was playing off 
my old stage speeches with her ! ” There was nothing 
factitious about his feeling, he knew; then how horrible 
it would be if she imagined so ! 

In due time he had his answer. 

‘ ‘ I cannot come, and it were best not. I do forgive 
you; but there can never be any love between us, believe 
me. So I will not torture you with a long argument; 
I will only say we had best not meet. This sounds 
hard, I know, but it is the only kind way for me.” 

There was a blot on the signature, beyond doubt a 


YRSTERDA V. 


239 


tear. If Harry had only known for whom ! but having 
no hint of that secret, he took it as suggesting hope, 
in spite of her words. “She distrusts me, but she 
doesn’t hate me. Now I will go to her myself.” 

He had been reading his letter on the veranda of the 
house; Ina sat not far off, with a pile of correspondence. 
Suddenly she turned to him, exclaiming, “Now that is 
too bad ! Grace isn’t coming after all. Mrs. Bishop has 
been ill, and wants her, and she says she must go. Let 
me see.^ what’s the date.? she must be there now. If I 
could have written sooner, and caught her ‘ first ! So 
provoking! I hope you have better news.” 

“Not so good as it might be. A business errand, 
that sends me down to New York to-morrow.” 

Early in the morning therefore Harry started. He had 
not been gone many hours, before in walked Felix, to 
Ina’s great astonishment; for he had sent no word, and 
there was no reason to suppose him anywhere on this 
side of the continent. She happened to be alone; her 
husband and the children were on the beach, and she had 
not followed them at once, having stopt for a bit of mend- 
ing about one of the little dresses, which if taken in time 
would not delay her two minutes. 

“How well you look, Mrs. Waveney,” Felix said; 
“this is perfect air. It is no wonder Grace Delahay joined 
you; is she with you yet.?” 


240 


YESTERDAY. 


“Why, Doctor, she hasn’t been here, and isn’t coming! 
She is with Mrs. Bishop. I’m so disappointed.” 

“Why, I met an old acquaintance of ours, a Mrs. Wa- . 
ters, who told me, that when she left here, you certainly 
expected Grace.” 

“That stupid woman I She always gets everything 
wrong. ” 

“Have you seen Grace lately.?” He ventured, with 
Ina, to use her name freely. 

“ Not since winter. She has not changed, only grown 
more charming, my husband says, who remembers her 
longer than I, you know. What a pity it is I here you 
have missed her and our friend Mr. Sundon into the 
bargain.” 

She had not meant to say this, for she saw there was 
some storm in the air; but it slipped off her tongue in her 
embarrassment. Felix looked as if he had only just come 
on from San Francisco, and been traveling night and day; 
was it all for Grace.? He enlightened her at once. 

“ Where has Sundon gone .? To see her .? That would 
be too much ? ” 

“Good Heavens, Doctor, I never thought of that! I 
wonder if it could be so. He said he was going to town 
m business, but nothing more positive.” 

“He’s impudent enough, if he fancied. How could 
you let them meet last winter.?” 


YESTERDA Y. 


24 


“What should I have done? It was accidental, and 
she made no objections aftenvards. . My husband’s best 
friend — a man that ever since I have known him has really 
been blameless — Doctor, you are not fair. Nothing that 
was said or done then could give any color to your idea. 
He never, since you remember him, faltered in his care 
for Thyra; and now she is dead, — why not, after all?” 

“A man so hopelessly coarse-grained has no right to 
come near Grace.” 

“You don’t do him justice. He is a gentleman at 
heart.” 

“He couldn’t but show himself so to you; but to 
a wife — ” 

“He never drinks now; that was what spoiled him once. 
Anybody might trust him to-day.” 

“Think of him and Grace together; does not it strike 
you as a discord?” 

“As he is now, they might be in harmony yet.” 

“Then at least they are not so now!” 

“I don’t know; but I should think it would take him 
a good while to win her, if he can at all.” 

“Have you talked to her about him? Does she un- 
derstand him ? ” To himself: “For I believe you don’t.” 

‘ ‘ She has always avoided discussing his past or his char- 
acter. It may be only her dislike of scandal ; such things 
seem to give her real pain to think or speak of. When I 


242 


YESTEI^DA K 


have mentioned him to her, I could not help putting him 
in a favorable light, because truly I see him in one. She 
never tried to set me right with objections. But she never 
expressed any liking for him personally; only admired his 
acting. ” 

“ At least I must know for myself; I came East only to 
find out whom she could care for. When does the next 
train start ? I have waited so long to speak that I am out 
of all patience now; excuse me if I am rough.” 

“Oh, how horribly stupid I am ! I have been talking 
to you as if you only took a brotherly interest; just stab- 
bing and wounding you ! What shall I do .? ” 

“Tell me the quickest way back to New York. It’s 
no fault of yours, indeed.” 

“You must drive over to the Junction.” He had 
walked up from the station near by. “I can find you a 
horse and man, and while he’s harnessing I’ll put you 
up something to eat on the way.” 

“Now this is too bad ! ” she said to herself, while she 
watched Felix out of sight. “ I feel as if I was playing a 
double game. Of course it’s better that a man should 
have a clear record, like the Doctor or my husband; still, 
I do believe Harry Sundon’s is an exceptional case. I wish 
I knew what she would think. Why,” fairly gasping for 
breath as recollections of talks in the winter came crowd- 
ing on her, “I know now ! I ought to have given a hint. 


YESTERDA Y. 


243 


and not let the Doctor go off without a hope; he’s had 
such a hard life, poor man, that he sees everything black. 
And as for Sundon I believe its all fancy.” 

Yet she could not quite convince herself nothing was 
the matter there, after all. 

Felix felt very glad to find his driver more silent and his 
horse faster than the country average. His blood was up. 
The thing he had dimly imagined had come full upon 
him, and for the time he could see no other matter. He 
had heard occasional rumors in all these years that Grace 
was likely to be engaged; but they had each one turned 
out unfounded. It was easy to understand that among the 
officers of the distant garrison more than one might be 
pleased by her, possibly enough she might return the feel- 
ing of some lucky fellow; .still Felix would not be daunted, 
would not give her up till he should absolutely receive her 
wedding-cards. He had waited and worked so many years 
for success, still modest, but at last enough in his eyes to 
warrant his coming forward, that he could not easily bear 
a check. The Waveneys had said Grace was more charm- 
ing than ever; he could imagine it; she had never been 
crude, but she had still ripened slowly; at thirty some 
women begin to fade, but she would be perfect. And 
now there must confront him the prospect, the risk, the 
danger, of Sundon making her his prize, — Sundon, who 
had had everything he desired, enough to have wearied of 


244 


YESTERDAY. 


half of it; yes, and much that a man is the worse for ex- 
periencing — much that must have unfitted him for Grace’s 
companionship. Would Grace understand that.? Would 
she shrink from Sundon, divining what he was, or would 
the realization of that -be so beyond her that it were not 
possible to undeceive her .? Again, perhaps Ina’s kindly 
judgment might be just, and Sundon’s nature might be 
purified through his care for Thyra and his affection for 
Grace — if, coming so close together, one of the two things 
did not inevitably make a wrong of the other. Still Felix 
must go on and hear what Grace had to say, though it 
were the death-sentence of his future; must tell her what 
he believed Sundon to be, though it were treachery to a 
man whose confidence he had unwillingly surprised in an 
unguarded hour. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


H arry had decided to reach his goal on Long Island 
by the morning boat rather than by the train; in 
the forenoon the first was never crowded, and he should be 
more likely to avoid meeting acquaintances. He wanted 
to be as nearly alone on this expedition as he could. 

It was very disturbing that he must seek Grace in that 
haunted neighborhood, which of itself was likely to recall 
to her the memories that he wanted to blot out. At least 
he should not find her in the little house; it had long 
since been given back to the gardeners occupation. But 
the season was the same, the region round unaltered; 
would those influences not make her unbelieving as to 
changes in other things? 

He went out on the upper forward deck to smoke; 
but his cigar was hardly lit before he took it from his 
mouth to greet an approaching fellow-passenger. 

‘ ‘ Why, Doctor Belden ! When did you come on ? 
Glad to see you.” He had forgotten that he should 
think Felix’s next appearance ill-omened. But Felix 
could not let the associations of their last meeting pass. 


246 


YESTERDA Y. 


“You have not been so fortunate lately,” he said. 
“I was sorry to hear of your wife’s death.” 

“Yes,” Harry answered, deceived by the sympathetic 
tone, and feeling as if he were deceiving. ‘ •' It’s not 
an old story yet. Poor Thyra ! Still — ” 

He broke off; for once in his life he did not know 
what to say; he wanted to tell Felix nothing, and at 
the same time felt as if he ought to make no pretenses 
with him. 

“Are you going to Coney Island ? ” Felix asked. The 
boat, after touching once or twice along shore, finished 
its voyage at that point. 

“No; I have business in what Waveney tells me is 
your old neighborhood.” 

Felix questioned no further for the time; they both 
sat silent, while the little steamboat paddled out into 
the Bay, and then as if shy of meeting the larger and 
showier boats that crossed the open water to and fro, 
kept close to the Long Island shore, following the green, 
tree-crowned bank (now rough with brushwood and care- 
less roadside grass, now siyioothly terraced and leading 
up to large well-ordered country-houses), that runs from 
Greenwood to Fort Hamilton. Just as a traveler begins 
to find this shore monotonous, it turns suddenly, making 
the eastern wall of the Narrows by a little clean-cut 
bluff, faced citywards with a hanging grove of wild trees 


YESTERDA K 


247 


whose lighter green is brocaded with tops and boughs 
of dark cedars, while under the front towards the Lower 
Bay a handful of fishermen’s shanties nestle, fringing them- 
selves with tumble-down scraps of docks. Here Fort La- 
fayette stood ruined in the channel, and garrisoned by a 
' fog-bell; looking back as the boat passed, the brick walls 
and doorways cased with stone, the large-leaved spreading 
seedling ailanthuses (warm-weather trees which are so out 
of fashion now as to suggest neglect) springing up against 
them, and in front a huddle of queer little sheds and big 
old boilers on the small wooden pier of the islet, all 
joined to make a picturesque sketchy effect; with a cer- 
tain West Indian suggestion, echoed, when you turned 
your head, by Coney Island’s distant shining sands. 
Across the Narrows, the fine hill of Staten Island rose 
from village on the wharf to villa on the edge of the 
high-set woods; its sharp southward corner made sharper 
by the grassy steep between the forts. 

“That’s a bad piece of work for its purpose,” said 
Harry, pointing to the lower fort; “a few foreign shells 
would bring it all down on the heads of the garrison, 
and kill them with their own casemates.” 

“To be sure,” Felix rejoined. “For all that, in 
these times of peace, it is the best thing in the Bay 
architecturally; a real rock could not finish the picture 
better than the simple lines of those great gray walls. 


248 


YESTERDA Y. 


You and I though have more to do with the other 
shore now, I think.” 

“It’s flat enough over there beyond Fort Hamilton,” 
Harry answered, with seeming carelessness, but begin- 
ning to wonder what the Doctor meant 

“All the same you cannot expect to have a diill 
errand of it, if you are going to see Grace Delahay,” 
Felix said. 

“ How came you to know Miss Delahay well enough to 
call her Grace ? ” asked Harry. 

“We were children together, and friends once, and 
are so still, I dare say; but I have not seen her for 
nearly nine years.” 

“You are bound there this morning too?” 

“Yes, I am.” 

There were no other passengers on the forward deck, 
and few on the boat at all; but the conversation was 
dropping into low and excited tones. 

“Just tell me,” said Harry, thinking it best to risk 
something, “have people been putting her name and 
mine together already?” 

“No, indeed. But I have a way, — a foolish one, I 
imagine, — of taking things for granted on my own 
ideas. ” 

“ Well — I may as well tell you that as far as I am con- 
cerned you are right. I mean I’m neither so conceited 


YESTERDA Y. 


249 


nor so down-hearted as to be sure what she thinks of me; 
but I must hear it to-day from herself.” 

‘ ‘ I wonder if she understands you well enough to 
know what she ought to think of you.” 

“Were you going down to enlighten her.? I don’t 
want to snub you; you deserve no such treatment; but I 
must tell you it’s quite unnecessary; she knows me al- 
ready better than you do.” 

“What do you mean.?” 

“You don’t dare to doubt her, do you.?” 

“No! but I doubt you.” 

“Well, since you have heard half, you may as well 
have the whole. You came to understand me by an 
accident; so did she. Only her occasion was more se- 
rious, if possible; just before matters came to a climax 
between Thyra Lang, as she then was, and myself. 
There was still time to turn back, ancT Grace tried to 
turn me; in fact I promised to let Thyra alone, and I 
began to; but another chance meeting, and I broke my 
word. Grace thought at first the whole thing was a de- 
ception and a trick on my part; but I don’t believe she 
does so now.” 

“If she was willing to renew the acquaintance last 
winter, I suppose not.” 

“That was an accident, too. She evidently didn’t want 
to make trouble between the Waveneys and myself.” 


250 


YESTERDA V. 


“I must own I think you have behaved well to the 
Waveneys. ” 

“I owed it to them to let them think better of me 
than I deserve.” 

“But now have I any business with Grace in this 
affair ? ” 

“That you can tell best for yourself; I mean to see 
her to-day; but I haven’t the right to stop you.” 

“Then the whole matter rests with her. I shall go 
on shore and look at the old places; but I don’t interrupt 
you, since you are not the man I remember you.” 

“I hope this isn’t too serious to him,” thought Harry; 
and aloud, “I thank you for that.” 

They parted at the boat-landing; Felix strayed off to 
th€ beach, Harry took the way to Mrs. Bishop’s. “Mrs. 
Bishop wasn’t wdl, saw no one; but Miss Delahay would 
be down in a minute,” the servant said. 

The large bare old rooms with their faded carpets, their 
quaint engravings in black frames, their scanty furnishing 
and scattered scraps of antiquated bric-a-brac, looked 
the same as the first time he had seen them. Nothing 
was changed but himself. He could not go back and 
be the man of that spring day, younger, freer, unbur- 
dened with those recollections that he feared would make 
an impassable barrier between him and Grace. If he 
had only known — Well ! who dares to break a law 


YESTERDAY. 


251 


should have courage enough to bear the law-breaker’s 
punishment; and perhaps — ‘‘Here she comes; does 
she look unwilling to listen to me?” 

She came, with her heart full of another image. She 
had no idea Felix had crossed the mountains; Florence’s 
letter had miscarried this time, not reaching Long Island 
till that evening, after all was settled; but since their part- 
ing, there had never been a day that Grace did not think of 
her love. In her separation from her old friends, she had 
seen no reason to crush the seemingly hopeless longing 
with which she also must destroy too much of her inner 
life. “When he marries it will be time,” she had told 
herself, even as he himself; and the occasion did not 
come. While she was in Texas, in new circumstances 
and busy with Helen’s education, her love had retreated 
far enough into the background of her life to be a mel- 
ancholy pleasure. But the first approach to her old sur- 
roundings had brought it fon^'ard, and Harry’s attentions 
gave it a new and poignant phase. Other men had been 
interested in her, but none affected her so strangely or 
strongly. Escape him she knew she should in the end; 
yet she feared the meantime. 

She met him with a troubled face; still he thought he 
had never seen her so lovely. For her part, she had 
expected to find him overbearing, and instead it was in a 
gentle manner, recalling Tyne to her mind, that he said, 


252 


YESTERDAY. 


“You see I could not take your letter for an answer.” 

“I wish you had. I do not know what more to 
say. ” 

“But I know; I who had to follow you.” 

“What shall I do?” 

“Love me! Since I cannot turn, Grace, turn to me.” 

“I have no more choice than you. I cannot love 
you. I do not.” 

“And yet you say you have forgiven me.” 

“ Yes; I mean to do you justice; but love is a step be- 
yond, and I cannot go so far. I pity you and am angry 
with myself, that you have set your heart on me; but what 
you ask is not in me to render.” 

“Grace, give me time; let me try to win you; a month, 
a year, ten, twenty, if you must; only don’t send me 
away altogether.” 

“It is useless; the longer you wait the less it will help; 
you will only wear out yourself and me; once for all, I 
cannot love you.” 

■ She spoke very gently and sadly. But for all that he 
lost control of himself. 

“The devil ! here I have had my own way all my life, 
and now when I must succeed, when I don’t care to live 
another day without success, I fail 1 You cruel, cold wo- 
man, I hope the same may come to you that you give to 


me. 


YRSTRRDA Y. 


253 


‘'A lover’s blessing, indeed!” said Grace, her eyes 
flashing. 

He looked at her a moment. “No; I take it back; I 
must wish you well, no matter what you do to me.” 

“It’s no use,” she said at last, after a long pause, a 
heavy silence to them both; “lam as wretched for an- 
other as you can be for me. Why should we torment 
each other then .? ” 

“Forgive me! I should have guessed that.” 

“I took pains you should not, you of all people. I 
think now that distinction was unfair.” 

“Trust me then. You give me no hope; have you 
none for yourself.? ” 

“None.” She really believed it; it was so long since 
she had seen Felix. 

“Impossible! You might draw any man to you you 
chose; but if you think he will not come, I am here.” 

“I cannot forget him; I do not know how.” 

“It’s all my fault; if I had not lost my head, and 
thrown myself away on a woman not to be named in the 
same year with you, I might win you yet; always so ! ” 

“You must not make yourself miserable with that; be- 
fore you ever saw me, I loved him.” 

‘ ‘ I might have made you forget him, though, if I had 
not been such a fool.” 

“Never!” thought Grace, but would not speak it. 


254 


YESTERDAY. 


Still her silence was not an assenting one, -and Harry 
could not but understand it. On this desperate moment 
followed an impulse that was given no time to grow cool. 

“Too late and too soon; that is the history of my life, 
it seems,” he went oh. “But if I can do anything, it 
shall not be of yours. I see it all now; I know the man, 
and he loves you; why, he all but told me so not an hour 
past. It’s Felix Belden. ” 

She hid her face in her hands. ^ 

“Yes. It’s the only thing I am sure of in this world, 
what you and he care for each other. He has come on 
from California, and for you.” 

She looked up. “Where is he.?” 

“ Down on the beach. I’ll bring him up. He ought 
to have been here, not I; but I told him what I was about, 
and that sent him off. You’ll hate me again for that, and 
indeed you may. It seems I never can treat you fairly. 
To, be sure, he’s not to be bluffed off by a mere guess, 
like the idiots in the novels; he would come to-morrow 
to see for himself what you decided, anyhow; but you 
shan’t have to wait, if I’m an honest man.” 

“And just when no one could blame you for standing 
aside, you turn and help me ! I have misjudged you 
cruelly; and now you prove a friend, such a friend — ” 
“Grace, did not I tell you I loved you.? and I mean 
it. This is the only chance I ever shall have to show 


YRSTRRDA V. 


255 


you it; the only thing — and a poor trifle enough — I may 
ever be able to do for you; and I should be a precious 
scoundrel if I did less. Say no more; in two minutes 
you shall hear him.” 

He was gone. Grace sank into a chair, one hand at 
her throat, one on her breast; she was choking with the 
flood of emotions that had come upon her. 

Harry found Felix just leaving the shore to take the 
cross-road towards the village (in doing which, by the way, 
one avoided passing Mrs. Bishop s house). He was walk- 
ing slowly along with his head bent, and noticed nothing 
till Harry had laid a hand on his arm, saying, “Come 
quick; it’s you that are wanted.” 

‘ ‘ What’s happened .? ” 

“What I ought to have known would. Fm noth- 
ing there. It’s your place, it always has been; never any 
one’s but yours. Whenever you and I come across 
each other you always have the best of it, and now 
you’ve fairly beaten me off the field. Your journey 
from the West was no fool’s errand.” 

“What do you mean.? How do you know.?” 

“Easy enough. She would have nothing to say to 
me. At that I acted like a brute, as I generally do 
just when I shouldn’t; lost my temper, told her I 
wished she might be as wretched as I, — and she owned 
I had my wish. Of course I had to guess your name; 


256 


VESTERDA V. 


but she couldn’t keep it from me, though she couldn’t 
speak it herself. Now do you see.? Come along; I 
said I would bring you.” 

“And you can do this for me — for us — now.? How 
shall I thank you.? I feel as if I were wronging you. 
I couldn’t have expected so much of any man.” 

“Good Lord, what do you think of people.? What 
else can I do .? A regular scamp I should be if I tried 
to keep you apart now, when a word was all that it 
needed to bring you together. I give up nothing, for 
I have nothing to give up; everything is yours and hers, 
and I will cheat no man out of his own. I can’t help 
thinking you to blame though for letting her live on this 
way, eating her own heart all these years; she thought 
you didn’t love her, and she hardly believes it now, poor 
thing; you will have to do a great deal to make it up 
to her.” 

• “It seemed more honorable to leave her free than 
to hamper her with a long engagement.” 

“Do you know her no better than to suppose an 
engagement to a man she loved would have been a 
burden .? She is the woman to think half a loaf better 
than no bread, and I only wonder she hasn’t starved 
outright. ” 

“My sister told me as much, but I was not ready to 
believe her.” 


YESTERDAY. 


257 


“You’re an obstinate fellow; don’t be so to Grace 

But here I stand taking you to task, and am just as 

0 

bad myself, for keeping her waiting for you. Come ! 
There’s no more to say except to her.” 

Grace thought herself quite calm when the first shock 
had passed; to such temperaments as hers, joy is soothing. 
But the sound of the two men’s footsteps at the door made 
her tremble all over; she could but just rise to meet them 
as they entered. 

“You see I can keep my word,” Harry said. 

“ Don’t — I do believe you — ” She put out her hand, 
thinking she should fall. 

“Grace!” Felix caught her in his arms, and her 
head dropped on his shoulder a moment; the next she 
lifted it, and turned, with her eyes swimming in tears: 
“Oh, Mr. Sundon, if we could — if we coqld — ” 
“Never mind me. Think of yourselves now. I’ve 
just time to catch the next train; good-bye 1 ” 

With that he ran out of the house. 

“If it could have been any other way!” said Felix. 
“What must you think of me, my darling, neglecting 
you so when he was so kind ? I wonder you have not 
chosen him.” 

“I could not. There has never been any one but 
you for me. But is it true we are together now? I 
have dreamed we might not always be parted, that 


258 


YESTERDAY. 


there might come a time when you would love me 
and I would own I loved you; and now it seems I 
must still be dreaming.” 

“You shall know you are awake; I shall spend the 
rest of my life in proving it to you, my love, my darling ! 
This shall be real, whatever else is shadow; this shall be 
present, whatever else is past.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 


H arry had to mn for the train, and just caught it; 

when he had cooled down from that exercise he 
took out of his pocket a couple of business letters, and 
read them over and over, trying to fill his mind entirely 
with professional matters. “There’s life enough in those 
things,” he told himself, “for a man of my age.” But 
this last was not a pleasant reflection. He had no con- 
sciousness of failing powers, or sensitiveness dulled to im- 
pressions of any sort; must he feel already that in one 
direction his hold on life had slackened? 

Grace and Felix chose an early day for their wedding, 
that they might cross the mountains before the winter 
blockaded their road. Ina and Tony were there; but 
Harry was off on a starring trip, and did not return to 
New York till “the Beldens” were gone. For months 
he heard nothing of them; the Waveneys abstained from 
mentioning them. 

At length one day he asked Ina, “How does Mrs. 
Belden get on in her new home ? ” 


26 o 


YESTERDAY. 


“She is very well and happy she tells me.” 

“Does she write to you?” 

“Often. She is a capital correspondent.” 

“You must let me know when you have any news of — 
of them. Of course it will be good; the Doctoc is bound 
to make her happy, and I am sure he will.” 

After that Ina always reported to Harry what she heard 
from California; a story of steady success and content. 
He received it with quiet interest; only- once, when she 
had the birth of Grace’s first child to announce, he seemed 
disturbed. Still, as time went on, Ina believed him rec- 
onciled to the state of affairs. 

She was mistaken. Do what he might, Harry could 
not absorb himself in the present so far as to have no rec- 
ollections. Still reminded every day of what he had been 
forced to leave behind him as suddenly as a traveler in 
the tropics, separated from the village of the plain, where 
he tarried an hour ago, by an earthquake-chasm opening 
between him and its distant smiling houses whither he 
had planned to return; finding alD things as it were 
conspire against him to awake associations, a hidden 
fire lurked under his outward quiet. At first he had 
been hardly conscious of it himself, under the dulling 
influence of the ^eat blow he had received. But when 
the effort to substitute his other interests for the feeling 
which so quickly and so thoroughly had become his real 


YESTERDA Y. 


261 


life did not succeed in making him forget Grace, his love 
for her revived. He reproached himself for this treachery 
in thought to her and Felix; but his emotion held him 
like a mania. He gradually excused himself for it; what 
wrong could there be ifi a mere sentiment .? It was only a 
charm against meaner loves, a last relic of enthusiasm to 
keep him from growing old too fast. So he was not 
shocked when by degrees a fixed idea shaped itself: 
‘ ‘ While Belden lives, nothing; but if he should die .? I 
shall never try to murder him, that would lose me her for 
ever; but if he should die, she might come to me at last. ” 
This ghost of a future became his constant companion; he 
had not the strength to kill, it, only to keep it just where 
it was in its growth — no more, no less, and only known 
to himself. 

Things might have gone worse if he had had no 
outlet for his emotions. But he could express himself 
very fully in his acting, yet be shielded by the fictitious 
situations from having the world understand what he 
really meant. The danger was that having not* enough 
to interest him outside of it, — for his relations with the 
Waveneys and other friends, pleasant as they were, yet 
left many blanks unfilled, — he would wear himself out 
before his time; for he worked hard and constantly. 
He foresaw this; but so faintly, that it did not influence 
him; his calling was too dear to him to be slighted for 


262 


■ YESTERDA Y. 


the sake of an unpleasant possibility which he did not 
at all realize. 

Years passed; his professional success continued, and 
his heart-secret was still his own. The last no one had 
ever suspected less, though it had never weighed on him 
more, than one winter Sunday evening, when Ina’s news 
was that Grace had been seriously ill, and was hardly out 
of danger at the time of the letter, which was written by 
Florence, always an inmate of her brother’s house. 

Harry sat with the Waveneys for some time, talking 
of indifferent things and thinking of Grace; at last he 
went to his own quarters. He and his friends still lived 
in the same apartments they had in Thyra’s time. Since 
her death, Hariy had made no attempt at housekeeping; 
he hired a woman to come m and do the housework 
while he was out, and took his meals at a restaurant when 
the Waveneys did not insist on his making one at their 
table. He was quite alone when he shut his door. 
Then was the time for the crowded distinct past and 
the vague future to come upon him and master him. 
The rooms were full of suggestions of Thyra; he had 
changed nothing since her day, nor had he ever been 
willing to leave the place. He knew people praised 
what they thought meant devotion to her memory; he 
chafed at this deception, but how could he explain? 
It seemed worse to him now than ever, overcome as 


YESTERDA Y, 


263 


he was with anxiety for Grace. In all his fancyings 
he had never thought of her death; and no wonder, 
with his temperament. “I have no imagination for the 
supernatural,” he had once said; and to his mind, Grace 
in her grave would have seemed a thousand times more 
lost to him than Grace, living, and Felix Belden’s wife. 
So the night was made dreary, and the days which fol- 
lowed were little better, till Ina gave him a more fav- 
orable report. Still he was not free from his new care 
till spring-time began. 

Meanwhile he had been acting in a play which owed 
its great success principally to him. True, the company 
was a strong one, and the o’ther parts worth representing 
and well sustained; but Harry’s was the sympathetic charac- 
ter of the piece. He played the man who, having known 
from folly rather than perversity what vice was in his 
younger days, applied his experience, with wit and keen 
courage, to the successful circumventing of the really vi- 
cious individuals bent on making a prey of the impru- 
dent and unwary people who filled out the list on the 
programme. The personage is not new, to be sure; 
but the ingenuity of the playwright had given him 
some freshness, and Harry’s representation made him 
appear absolutely original. His final fate, Harry de- 
clared was “more romantic than natural”; after having 
worked disinterestedly for his friends, he was unexpect- 


264 


YESTERDA Y. 


edly rewarded by the unhoped-for though much-desired 
love of the charming ingenue, for whom more than one 
other had sighed in vain. The critics however approved 
of this close, saying that “otherwise the play would have 
been a mere brilliant problem in moral arithmetic. ’’ 

“Or a tragedy,” Harry added confidentially to the 
Waveneys. 

“You are thinking of my uncle Mont,” said Tony. 

Ina did not mention what came into her own head. 

Certain it is that those who still remembered “the 
gentleman in spite of himself” declared they could al- 
most believe they were meeting him again in some friend’s 
parlor, Harry recalled him so vividly, notwithstanding 
the difference of looks. Other theater-goers of a sen- 
sitive kind objected, “That sort of imitation is too much 
like caricature for a thorough artist; we don’t see it.” 
The first speakers returned, “Why, such perfectly natural 
playing makes us feel half the time as if we were eaves- 
dropping and ought to go away if our curiosity would 
let us,” at which the second scolded, “ How can you ac- 
cuse Sundon of such vulgar clap-trap realism as that im- 
plies?” Yet though they quarreled as to the grounds 
of their admiration, both parties were agreed in feeling 
and proclaiming it heartily. 

This part interested Harry so much that he spared 
himself no pains to make it his best. After a time, how- 


YESTERDA V. 


265 


ever, he felt it to be a greater effort to play than usual; 
though the public did not suspect this. For several 
nights the sensation went on increasing; till one evening, 
after the plav w is over, and he and Waveney were walk- 
ing home in tne April moonlight, he said, “Give me 
your arm, Tony; I haven’t been drinking, I swear, but I 
can’t walk straight, for my head swims, and' I can’t see. 
T wonder what this means.” 

“ You’ve got tired for once,” said Waveney. “Hadn’t 
we better have a hack.?” 

“It’s not worth while, such a little way. I’m over 
it now.” 

The next morning, notwithstanding, he did not come 
to breakfast with the Waveneys, as he had promised. 
Waveney went to see if anything was the matter, and 
found him still in bed. 

“It’s no use, Tony,” he said. “You mustn’t expect 
me. When I try to get up, I can’t stand, and my head 
aches as if it would split. I must lie by for a day, if 
you can get Benson to let me off.” 

“I’ll make him, somehow; and I’ll tell Dr. Barbette 
to look in.” 

“You might as well. I dare say it’s nothing much, 
but the sooner it’s stopped the better.” 

“You ought to have something to eat, to begin with; 
I’ll see you do.” 


266 


YESTERDA Y. 


“Don’t bother yourself about that; I don’t want it, I 
couldn’t touch it.” 

“Oh, wait till you have it.” 

Waveney’s family took his report as very bad news. 
The eldest little girl, Toinette,. began to cry; then she 
jumped up and ran out. Her father had hardly time 
to get back to his friend, before there was a knock at 
Harry’s door which announced the doctor. 

“ Your little girl,” said Barbette to Waveney, “caught 
me on my steps, and would not let me go till she left 
me here.” 

“I declare, Tony, I envy you that little puss more 
than ever,” said Harry. 

Barbette looked grave at his patient’s account of 
himself. 

“No, Mr. Sundon, this isn’t a trifle. You have come 
to a stopping-place for the present; you must rest, wheth- 
er you like it or not. Overwork, that’s the trouble.” 

“That all.?” 

“Yes; but isn’t that plenty? You keep up a pretty 
steady strain on body and mind in the regular season, 
turning night into day every evening, and day into gas- 
light of Saturdays besides; you’ve had a succession of 
exciting new parts year after year; you’ve starred up 
and down the country, with all the chances of bad 
weather, bad food, and the professional worries and 


YESTERDA Y. 


267 


annoyances that unaccustomed places and people might 
bring on you; you’ve never spared yourself in the way of 
business, and when you were younger you — well, you 
burnt your candle at both ends then, I believe. I as- 
sure you, there’s nothing the matter that rest won’t cure; 
but you must take it, and a long one too. You’ve -a 
good constitution, still you’re not made of iron; in some 
points you’re not as tough as the rest of us; if you were, 
you mightn’t have made the first-class mark in your 
particular line that you have; so much the better for 
you professionally and for us that go to hear you; but 
all the more reason for not working too hard.” 

“Well, what ought I to do.? Layup for a fortnight, 
or a month .? ” 

“Six months at least; after that we’ll see.” 

“Why, doctor, I shall be bored to death.” ^ 

“Come now, you can’t make me believe that you’re 
such an empty-headed idiot as all that” 

“And if I don’t.?” 

“You’ll take your chance of paralysis, or softening 
of the brain, or anything else which disables and dulls, 
but, with a constitution like yours, doesn’t kill at 
,once. ” 

“Then I should be a burden on friends, where I 
have no claim but their kindness. In that case you’d 
better poison me, quick and quiet” 


268 


YESTEI^DAY. 


^‘Instead of giving you a new lease of life, after a 
little time of lying fallow ? ” 

“Do you think you can?” 

“With your co-operation.” 

“Oh, then you may as well have it. I’m not tired 
of the boards yet; there are a dozen parts I should like 
to try before I go on the retired list.” 

Barbette looked in again later in the day; after the 
second visit he met Benson at the street-door of the 
house, coming to inquire. ' 

“There must be a good deal up if Sundon’s sent for 
you, ” said the manager, ‘ ‘ he’s not the man to cry over 
a scratched finger. Poor fellow ! pity he’s so knocked 
up; he does excite himself too much, don’t take his 
parts as coolly as he used to. I’ll put on another play, 
and I suppose a few quiet nights’ll bring him round.” 

“You must give him more than that, if you don’t 
want to break him down.” 

“Not for the world. But can’t you patch him up, 
just to finish the season ? then he’ll have all summer to 
rest. It’ll be devilish inconvenient just now.” 

“I won’t answer for the consequences if he goes on 
the stage again under a year from to-day, Mr. Benson. ’1 
“Why, hang it, doctor, what am I to do without^ 
him for a year, I should like to know ? The other fel- 
lows are well enough, but he can do all they can and 


YESTERDAY. 


269 


more. I can’t get such houses with nothing but farces. 
They like the way the others set them laughing near as 
well, but they like to be made cry only the way he 
makes them. ” 

“You must tide over it somehow.” Barbette thought 
Benson s frankness meant a harder disposition than was 
after all the fact. “Your own life isn’t at stake. If 
you worry our friend to work too soon, — there’s plenty 
of hard work for him in your plays, — ^j^ou’ll kill him, 
let me tell you.” Barbette’s face — he was a little, alert, 
dark man, with eyes as keen and serviceable as fine sur- 
gical instruments — showed he did not overstate. 

“Mercy on us, doctor ! -you don’t think I’d play 
Harry Sundon any bad trick, that’s always done the 
handsome thing by me, do you .? I’ll go right up and 
tell him he may take his own time to get well in. Go- 
ing to send him abroad .? ” 

“No; the trip would excite him, and he wants quiet; 
besides, he’d better be under my eye for some time 
now. ” 

“ If there’s anything he ought to have, let me know. 
But who’ll take care of him.? he’s all alone.”' 

“Not with the Waveneys on the next floor. Trust 
them to look after him. They had me over as soon 
as they thought he could want me.” 

“Well, I may see him.?” 


270 


YESTERDA Y. 


“Yes, but don’t stay over five minutes by watch. He 
isn’t fit for visits.” 

“Unless yours, I’m afraid.” 

Benson came out more alarmed than he went in. 
“It’s like the world coming to an end,” he said to him- 
self, “when Sundon’s not able to hold his head up.” 

For many days Harry had a low fever and did not 
leave his bed; even after that was over, it was long 
before he could get out of the house. He had never 
been ill before in his life, and these hours of physical 
weakness and discomfort, rarely amounting, to actual 
suffering, but keeping him unfit for action, were for- 
lorn enough. By degrees, when he was able to go 
into the Waveneys’ quarters, and sit looking out of 
their windows or watching the life of the household, 
his lot seemed more tolerable. But it was so absurd, 
to take care of himself, or be taken care of, as he 
had done for poor Thyra once ! He used to laugh at 
it; he would have fretted, but for the prospect of re- 
turning the sooner j;p his profession for all this “non- 
sense.” Little Toinette would watch over him, “to 
see the children don’t come and tease you,” she would 
say with an air borrowed from her mother. She was 
not as pretty as Mary and the new baby-boy; though 
she had Ina’s fine eyes, she was too much like her 
father’s family in feature for real beauty; but she had 


YESTERDA Y. 


271 


always been Harry’s favorite, since the day, when a tiny 
thing brought into a room full of strange and to her 
alarming people, she had checked her coming tears 
and turned to him for refuge with a smile. 

When the summer began. Barbette sent Harry out of 
town, to Atlantic City. The salt air at first seemed to be 
the right prescription; but the doctor, who came down 
from time to time to look after his patient, said one 
day, “You’ve been worr}fing about something or 
other; you must stop that.” 

“One can’t get quite away from the world anywhere, 
you know.” 

“I hope your friend hasn’t brought you bad news, 
against my orders.” 

“Nothing; nothing, indeed.” 

Harry was telling the truth, yet with a reserve. He 
had had this information the day before from Waveney: 

“The Beldens are coming on. Grace is well now, 
but the Doctor thinks she needs rest and change. He’s 
the California member of some scientific association, 
or medical congress, or what not, that meets at New- 
port this year, and can’t and won’t do without him; 
I’m glad they appreciate him. So this time that brings 
them both. They leave the children with his sister, who 
will take the best of care of them; of course that’s hard 
for Grace, but they are too young for so long a trip. 


272 


YESTERDAY. 


and it would do her no good if she had to be looking 
after them all the time. The Doctor has a partner, 
so he can take a vacation.” 

“When do you expect them.?” 

“In three or four days at farthest. We shall have a 
little business together. Mrs. Bishop has died, and I 
am one of her executors. She leaves half her property 
to Grace, which is very natural; and the other half to 
Ina, which I think equally so; but it vexes Ina, who 
says it shows a want of confidence in me. Still she 
accepts her share — the old house on Long Island. We 
mean to spend our summer there, and the Beldens are 
to make us a visit, whenever the Romaines, who have 
the first promise, will let them leave Newport.” 

A little later Waveney came again and Felix with 
him. “We are in town for a day or two, on account 
of this legacy-business,” Felix said, “and I felt I must 
see you. My old friend Barbette reports you as mend- 
ing, but Fm afraid you are not quite done with him 
yet.” 

“You certainly look as if California and good luck 
had agreed with you,” Harry said. “And your wife; 
is she better .? ” 

“Perfectly well now; the journey has done her a 
world of good.” 

“Tell me, would I know San Francisco again, or 


YESTERDA Y. 


273 


have they pulled it all down and built it all up on 
a new plan?” With that they talked, till Belden wept 
away, of the places and people they remembered on the 
Pacific side. 

‘ ‘ There’s a happy man, and not arrogantly so either, ” 
thought Harry. ‘ ‘ But if I could have seen her ! And 
yet I thank her for not coming near me.” 

“Grace,” said Felix, when he had returned to her, 
“I am afraid Sundon has not forgotten yet.” 

“I wish he might. It seems as if it was my fault. 
But here’s a letter from Florence, all good news about 
the children. If only they were here ! ” 

“Don’t think too much of that, or you may not get 
back so soon.” 

July came. Doctor Barbette declared in the course of 
the month to his patient, 

“You’ve had enough of the sea for a while; something 
more bracing is what you need now. You must go to 
the White Mountains; but not by through train; spend 
one night in New York, take a Sound boat the next, and 
so on by easy stages. ” 

Harry began his journey, therefore, by visiting the Wave- 
neys; his own rooms were shut up. That family were 
delayed in town on account of repairs required at the 
old house on Long Island; they had a good deal to say 
about the Beldens. 


YESTERDAY. 


274 

“How young Grace looks for a woman so near forty !” 
Tony said. 

“Oh, she’s only thirty-six yet,” Hariy answered. 

“She hasn’t faded at all,” Ina said. “She looks just 
as she used to.” 

“That’s easy to believe. Toinette, what are you about 
with that big needle.? come and show me.” 

Toinette brought her embroidery, — she had just reached 
the dignity of crewel-work, — ^and sat down by him. 

“So you know my cousin Grace.?” she said. “Isn’t 
it funny she should be my cousin, when she’s older than 
my mamma, and her little boy and girl, that are younger 
than I am, should be my cousins too.? She has their 
pictures; she showed them to me, and I think she cried 
a little bit, not to have themselves here. They’re nice, 
but they’re not so pretty as my brother and sister. But 
she’s so pretty, and so nice ! ” 

“And Doctor Belden, what is he like.?” 

“Cousin Felix.? I don’t know so much about him; 
he isn’t easy to know, as papa says. But we’ll see them 
again; we’re going to Aunt Bishop’s house — that’s our 
house now — to-morrow, and most likely the next day 
they’ll come to us. Poor Aunt Bishop, I’m afraid I 
don’t care much if she is dead. I should be a great 
deal more sorry if anything happened to you.” 

“You would, pet?” 


YES TER DA V. 


275 


“Wouldn’t I? and so would everybody else. But 
you’re getting well, you know. Eveiybody wants to 
hear how you are. First they used to ask papa all the 
time; and now they’re out of town, they write. Oh, and 
one day there came a funny old man, that keeps a hotel 
near Aunt Bishop’s, and he nearly cried, asking about 
you. And Cousin Grace and Cousin Felix were so sorry; 
and Doctor Barbette came in to tell us about you, and 
Cousin Felix asked him so many questions about how 
he took care of you, that I got quite mad with him, be- 
cause I thought he thought Doctor Barbette was a bad 
doctor; and I asked him if he meant that; but he said, 
‘Oh no, he knows twice as much as I do.’” 

“Then I must be well taken care of.” 

“Can’t you make Doctor Barbette let you come and 
see us when Cousin Grace comes Ask him. She’d 
like it, and we’d like it, and there’s lots of room in the 
house: it’s so big!” 

‘ ‘ Maybe, puss. ” 

But Harry was very far from meaning such a thing. 
He felt as desirous to see Grace as ever; but therefore he 
would not; above all in his present state, which made 
him doubt if he could meet her calmly. He tried to 
reason away the whole thing, looking at himself in the 
glass, and seeing the image it gave, — gray, pale, worn, 
dispirited. “I am grown old, and what have old fel- 


276 


YESTERDAY. 


lows to do with love ? She herself is not so young either. ” 
But it was no use. “If her hair were white and her 
forehead wrinkled, she would be Grace still; and they 
tell me now she has lost nothing of her looks, of her- 
self. I will not see her, to torment her with my troubles; 
what I began when we met last must be carried out to 
the end.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


I NA and the children went off the next morning, to 
take up their abode for the rest of the summer in 
the Bishop house. Waveney staid behind, seeing about 
various luggage that was to be sent down there; Harry 
remained with him till the late afternoon, when they 
parted for their different destinations. 

“I’m sorry you’ll miss the Beldens,” was Waveney’s 
unsuspicious last word. 

I'hough New York was now empty elsewhere. West 
Street still over-flowed with its usual flood of freights 
and passengers; heavily-loaded trucks, crammed street- 
cars, throngs of people on foot; the great stream of 
travel for business or pleasure, bound north, south, 
east, and west, inland, coastwise, and over-sea. As 
Harry, on his way to the Boston boat, made one of 
this mingled crowd, he noticed a large lady before him 
drop a traveling-fan; he picked it up and stepped for- 
ward with ‘ ‘ This is yours, I believe, madam ? ” 

“Yes, thank you,” said she, turning on him a well- 
set, large, but not expressive pair of black eyes (like 


278 


YESTERDAY. 


what Ina’s, if the life and spirit had left them, would 
have been), belonging to an appearance still showily ef- 
fective, notwithstanding a too-comfortable life had injured 
it in the direction of trimness of figure. Her compan- 
ion, evidently her husband, seemed to have enjoyed 
the same existence, though the providing of it had left 
more marks on his face and much gray in his beard. 
He too looked round, and an expression of utmost as- 
tonishment came over him as he saw Harry. “Why,” 
he blurted out, “I saw your death in yesterday’s paper 
at Long Branch.” 

It appeared afterwards that one of the lesser journals 
had filled up a blank in its columns with this statement. 

“I’m not a ghost quite yet,” answered Harry, quietly, 
but not without a certain uncomfortable feeling at the ad- 
dress, intensified to something more as he suddenly rec- 
ognized who it was that had spoken. “But as for you, 
Mr. Lang, you look good for the next twenty years; the 
world has gone well with you.” 

“So well,” said Lang, with an impulse of pity for 
the worn man before him, “that I have no more 
quarrels with any one.” 

Harry bawed, and let them pass on. He could not 
say another word; but he thought, “If I were to die 
now, I should be free of the world; he is the best off 
of us now.” 


YESTERDAY. 


279 


“Was that Mr. Sundon?” the present Mrs. Lang 
afterwards remarked to her husband. 

“Yes. Why do you ask me that way, as if I ought 
to have been harder on him } If you saw a ghost, 
Kate, would you fire stones at it } ” 

The boat was crowded, but Harry did not look about 
for acquaintances; the hot day had fatigued him; he 
found a cool corner, and sat there scarcely observing 
what went on round him. The sea-breeze had refused 
to blow that day; a heavy haze dulled the air, blurring 
the pretty circuit of the harbor, and thickening into a 
white fog as they got out into the Sound. The night 
would not be dark, for the moon was full; but the mist 
made sky and water alike monotonous to the eyes. It 
was still early when Harry went to his stateroom. He 
took off his coat and boots, and lay down; he was not 
a nervous man, but liked to be ready at a moments 
notice, if anything might happen. He dozed and woke 
and dozed, had strange dreams, vaguely unpleasant, and 
sleepless intervals in which memories came before him 
like shadows, not able in his dulled state to move him 
with their accustomed force. 

The fog-whistle began to blow, and in his dreams 
the sound shaped itself to that of the fairy hunting-horn 
of the old legend he had once read, which rang through 
the French forests when kings were to die. 


28 o 


YESTERDAY. 


A sudden crash and shaking woke him: he sat up, 
his nerves quivering, his mind bewildered; his first 
clear idea was to listen for the noise of running water; 
he somehow remembered to have heard of a boiler ex- 
plosion on one of these great boats, where the hot wa- 
ter poured all over one floor, and the passengers, who 
might have escaped had they remained in their berths, 
were scalded by jumping into it. No; his ears caught 
other sounds; shouts, screams, splintering thuds like 
falling timbers, and a roaring crackle which must mean 
fire; one could smell the smoke too. At once he 
was out of his room: the next moment he was car- 
ried along in a rush of people who were making for 
the upper aft-deck and the open air, away from the 
rifted wall of the boat and the outpouring cloud of 
fier)^ smoke beyond the break. Men, women, and 
children, in wild confusion, were crying, “She’s all on 
fire,” “We are sinking,” “Where are the life-preserv- 
ers,” “Where are you, father, mother, Mary, Jack, any 
of us ? ” The lamps on board were all out; but the 
sliding door which opened on the deck, driven back 
hard, showed a great mouth of pale light. ' As the peo- 
ple reached it, two or three stumbled and fell over the 
sill. Harry, who had now slipped ahead, stood in the 
door and called out, “You there behind, wait a bit; 
if we don’t trample each other, we’re safe enough.” 


YESTEIWA Y. 


28 


The breathless crowd paused a moment; the fallen 
people picked themselves up with his help; then every 
one advanced, but more slowly. They found the deck 
on a level with the water; a boat was floating close to 
the railing, but it was unluckily more than half full of 
people already; having no oars, they could not push off, 
Harry saw. 

‘ ‘ There’s a boat ! Let us aboard ! ” cried those be- 
hind him. 

He sprang up on the seat that runs along the railing, 
and called out, “She’s crowded, but she’ll take another 
woman or two; let ’em ahead, boys, and you try the 
floating stuff; ’’ for a glance behind him showed the 
water full of broken timber, mattresses, camp-stools, 
and other such things floated up from below. 

“Try it yourself!” and a couple of men, big and 
strong, but demoralized with fear, flew up at him and 
pushed him over, as they jumped for the boat. He 
fell backwards into the water; a floating beam, rising 
on the wave the steamboat made as she suddenly keeled 
towards him, struck him in the side. The blow turned 
him faint for a moment; then, the coolness of the water 
seeming to revive him, he raised himself, with a re-awak- 
ening of all his energies to save his life, and looked 
about as he began to swim. In the faint light he saw 
the little boat bottom upwards, and the people climbing 


2S2 


YESTERDAY. 


up on her and on the supports of the hurricane deck 
of the steamboat, still above water. Then a boyish voice 
at his ear, whose sound seemed oddly familiar, said, 
“Swim away quick ! we can’t help them now; she’ll go 
down and suck us under.” 

♦ 

“Strike out, and we’ll keep together!” Harry an- 
swered; and following his companion’s lead, in a few 
minutes they were clear of the wreck, and losing sight 
of it in the fog. 

The new fellow-voyager — a slim boy of twelve or thir- 
teen, in his under-clothes, but wearing a watch and 
chain, — stopping to float a minute, said with a chok- 
ing voice, “Not a sign of them! Would you go 
back .? ” 

“No,” Harry answered, as cheerily as he could; 
“they’ll be picked up as soon without you; I saw a 
steamboat lying off us just now, didn’t you } ” 

“She’s no good; it was she ran into us, and smashed 
herself and is going down too. I came from the for- 
ward end of ours; there were father and mother and I — 
the people pushed me one way and them the other — oh 
Lord ! ” 

“Come, my boy, keep your breath to keep you up. 
When your father and mother are safe, you mustn’t 
go under to make them not care that they are. ” 

“Yesterday was my birthday, and father lent me his 


YESTERDAY. 283 

watch. It was only for the day I asked him, and if I 
never give it back — ” 

“Oh, but you will yet.” 

“Our end was all afire. I heard a man say, ‘I won’t 
burn nor drown neither,’ and he shot himself through 
the head at his stateroom door. Then I jumped off.’’ 

“The more fool he. Now you brace up and work 
ahead, but not too hard though, my man. These 
waters are full of craft; ship, schooner, steamboat, 
anything you like to pick you up.” 

“But if I should get too used up even to float before 
anything comes — ” 

“Put your hands on my shoulders when you feel 
tired, and you’ll be safe.” 

So they paddled and floated along, far beyond their 
depth, with nothing but their own strength to depend 
on. After a while Harry felt the boy’s hands on his 
shoulders, and heard him whisper, “I can’t help it.” 

“You’re not heavy. Now you’ll do better.” 

Still no sight or sound of help or life; only the endless 
pale water and white fog. By-and-by the boy said, “I 
can’t stand this much longer.” 

“Slip down, and I’ll hold you. I can swim with one 
arm. ” 

Harry caught the boy by the neck of his shirt as he 
slid to one side, held him up and swam along; but’ this 


284 


YESTERDAY. 


was hard work; and now the thought stole upon him, 
“If I should fail too?’’ His wet clothes hampered him, 
and he could not try to get them off without letting 
go the boy; he felt a dull ache creeping over him, and 
a burning in his side where the timber had struck. 

Just then there was a low sound behind them like a 
distant cheer. 

‘ ‘ That’s help ! ” cried the boy, with a shrill scream. 
“Turn about.” 

As they turned, the noise grew louder. They saw 
something dark lying low on the water, like a heavily- 
freighted clumsy sloop, with what seemed a stumpy mast 
at one end; from this the Sound came. 

“ This way !” the boy cried again; “here’s two of- us 
drowning.” 

“We’re too heavy to come fast, but keep up and the 
tide’ll bring us,” answered a chorus of voices. 

The tide had now begun to set strongly towards the 
swimmers. Harry, revived and excited by the prospect 
of safety, struggled against its bubbling ripple; before 
he hoped, he touched the floating mass, and he and the 
boy were caught by friendly hands and drawn on board. 

For some time he knew no more; then he heard some 
one speak. “Good God, he can’t be dead. No, he’s 
coming to. There, lean against me, that’s easier for 
you ’than lying flat; ” and he felt himself raised a little 


YESTERDAY. 285 

way. The voice sounded like the boy's, but was that 
of an older person. 

‘‘Who are you.?" Harry asked, vaguely. “Tve known 
you somewhere.” 

“I’m Charley Corbin of St. Louis, — and bless me, 
you’re Harry Sundon. Here we haven’t met in all these 
years, and now first thing I know you pick up my boy 
for me ! ” 

‘ ‘ And a hundred thousand thanks, and there was never 
anybody so good, and oh, I don’t know what to say ! ” 
It was a woman with a cloud of hair falling about her, 
and brushing Harry’s face as she knelt beside him, that 
spoke. 

“Both father and mother safe; didn’t I tell you, my 
man .? ” said Harry. At that the boy sobbed and hid 
his head a moment on his mother’s shoulder. Then, 
trying to compose himself; “Father, here’s your watch 
back; it’ll want some cleaning after all this wash; if your 
friend — ” But here he broke down again. 

Harry, with his head against Corbin’s knee, was able 
to look about him, and slowly to understand their situ- 
ation. , They were on a raft, floating low in the water, 
rocked by the strong-running tide. It was crowded with 
people, some dripping wet, their clothes clinging round 
them (luckily for these, the night was warm), and 
others quite dry; some entirely dressed, others in curb 


286 


YESTEUDA Y, 


ous undress and dishevelment; all sitting crouched and 
nearly motionless. At the stern was what Harry had 
taken for a mast; it proved to be a man, a tall young 
fellow in the uniform of a sailor of our navy; he was 
sculling with a short oar, guiding the heavy raft as 
steadily as he could. Behind, towing by a rope, was 
a smaller raft, holding a few more men and women. 

‘ ‘ Now holler again, all hands ! ” the sailor called 
out; “shout, squeal, cheer, make all the noise, you’ve 
got in you ! One, two, three ! ” 

The men lifted up their heads with their former cry. 
But Corbin put his hand over Harry’s mouth. “’Sh, 
’sh ! you’ll kill yourself if you try to do any more. We 
can’t have you breaking a blood-vessel now.” 

“Now take breath and let a fellow listen!” was the 
sailor’s next order. They all were silent; but so was 
everything around. 

“Now holler again! We don’t want no more col- 
lisions to-night.” So with shouting and listening, they 
kept on their way. 

“That’s a good fellow at the Oar,” Corbin told Harry. 
“When we got up on the hurricane deck, he had that 
baby — the mother’s holding it now, but he took it while 
she was looking for the other children; she found them 
all, but her husband’s nowhere — on one arm, while he 
worked at the raft with the other. He called us men 


YESTERDAY. 


287 


to help him, and pretty soon we got it afloat; it was 
a long jump down, but everybody lit safe. I’d never 
have left without my boy; but we thought he was right 
behind us; when we missed him Lizzy fainted, and the 
fire flew at hei and singed her hair, and I caught her 
• up and jumped too. Once we got clear of the wreck, 
we picked up half-a-dozen people out of the water; then 
those tagging on behind, so scared they could hardly 
keep afloat when we found them; then you, that are 
worth the whole lot.” 

Still they drifted, and the shouters were growing weary, 
when a distant whistle was heard before them, to the 
right hand. The cheer answered it, loud and joyful; 
as the raft was hushed, the whistle rang out nearer and 
more sharply; and the pulsing throb of paddle-wheels 
began to fill the air. 

‘ ‘ That’s the Empire ! ” exclaimed a young fellow in a 
red shirt at Corbin’s elbow. “I know her singin’ mighty 
wed. Best boat on the Sound; we’ll find better quarters 
than the old tub we left behind, tell you what ! ” 

Another shout, and another whistle. “Old Ben 
Franklin himself would pay all he was worth for 
that ! ” said the red shirt. 

The sky, which already had been faintly lightening, 
began to clear; the pink flush before sunrise tinged the 
breaking fog; the east was darkened only by the welcome 


288 


YESTERDAY. 


shadowy mass of the great ' steamboat. The people 
sprang to their feet, waved hands, handkerchiefs, coats, 
shawls; to their now incoherent screams and cries an 
answer rang out firm and distinct: ‘^Stay where you 
are, and we’ll be along right away.” 

At once the shipwrecked crowd were still. They saw 
the great wheels turning; the Empire, towering over 
them as a lofty pile of building towers over children in 
the street, came on, came close; she slackened, slid her 
shining bow past them, stopped. A man, two, three, 
leaning over the bulwarks of the lower forward deck, 
were letting down ropes which the red-shirt was catch- 
ing. The sailor, leaving his oar to another hand, came 
among the people to keep order. “The women and 
children first,” he said. “Hi! you up there, let down 
a chair. ” It came, and he fastened the women and lit- 
tle ones to it, and sent them up one at a time. As soon 
as they were all safe, “Now’s your turn,” said he to 
Harry; “you saved that little "chap, and you’re hurt 
somehow. ” 

“I can wait — ” Harry began; but two or three men 
caught him up, and before he knew it he was on deck 
too. 

A place had been cleared among the wagons and 
freight; there stood the already-rescued, -watching their 
companions follow. Passengers with help to offer, fears 


YESTERDA Y. 


289 


to set at rest, or curiosity to satisfy, crowded the wide 
lower doors; and on the upper deck was another throng, 
with excited and pitying faces, leaning against the rope 
netting and gazing over. Somewhere, but whether above 
or below Harry’s dimming eyes and confused brain could 
not tell, he saw Grace and Felix; their looks of sym- 
pathy met his uncertain glance. He thought he called 
her name, though in truth he did not speak. His head 
swam, his feet gave way under him; but he was upheld 
by strong arms; he yielded himself to the friendly support, 
and to unconsciousness. 


CHAPTER XIX. 



HAT happened after that? Harry could not tell, 


» ■ for one. He had strange intervals of conscious- 
ness, when a sense of pain, at first dull, grew violent, 
but was quelled by opiates which led him into heavy 
sleep; with waking the suffering returned, and was 
driven away as before. There would be moments in 
which he would see familiar faces, but whether in fact 
or in delirium he was never sure; he seemed to change his 
place continually, though he could not move. Whether 
this w'ent on for hours, or months, or years, he did not 
know. At last he waked without pain, and found him- 
self lying quite still, no longer tossing on the Sound, 
and in a quiet place, no noise of boats or waters or 
shouting in his ears. He was in a room, the old-fash- 
ioned furnishing of which suggested Mrs. Bishop’s house. 
Through a broad window not far from his bed he CQuld 
see the tree-tops stirring in the sea-breeze, and the after- 
noon sun streaming on the fields beyond. He could 
but just lift his head, he was so weak; yet he felt a 


YESTERDA Y. 


291 


comforting sense of safety in his surroundings. Only 
he seemed to be alone. “Td like to see somebody/' 
he thought. “I wonder if I can speak.” With that he 
called, — though his voice surprised him, it was so faint, 
— “Any one here?” 

“Yes, I am/' and Corbin came forward. “I hope 
you’re pretty comfortable now. I mayn’t be much of 
a nurse, but I mind what I'm told; they had to let 
me try to do something for you, — ^you that saved my 
boy. Mrs. Belden’s better than I, but there was too 
much for one to do; you've needed care every minute.” 

“You’ve been very good to me; I’ve seen you off 
and on; so you’re real, all of you ? Isn’t this the 
Waveneys’ house?” 

“It is. Doctor Belden said you must be out of 

town, and we got a tug, and brought you straight 

here. We telegraphed for your own doctor, and he 

came post-haste; so you’re in good hands.” 

“I must have got rather battered to need them all. 
How long have I been here ? ” 

“Two days.” 

“How are your family?” 

“All right, only a trifle shaken; they’re at Start’s. 
Old Start has been up time and again to hear how 
you were getting on.” 

“He’s a good soul. I wonder, by the way, who those 


292 


YESTERDA Y. 


fellows were that pushed me off. I know I’ve seen one 
of them somewhere before,” 

“That one’s here, and in a state of mind, the scamp! 
He wants you to forgive him; but I wouldn’t do it. He 
came down to Start’s last night, and made his confession 
this morning; Start_ drew a pistol on him and ordered 
him out of the house.” 

“That was foolish of Start; what’s done is done. Tell 
the fellow that; or, if he takes it hard, bring him in, 
and ril tell him myself; yes, do that, the sooner the 
better. ” 

“All right; I’ll leave you with the Doctor, then.” 

Corbin went out, and Belden took his place. For 
some time nothing was said; then Harry began, “So 
I’ve been ill, and it’s not over yet .? ” 

“Not quite.” 

“You and Barbette keep giving me opiates; don’t 
get me into the habit of them; that’s worse than 
whisky. ” 

‘ ‘ Never fear. ” 

“What made you pick me up on the boat, I wonder.?’^ 

“Why not.?” taking Harry’s hand. 

“You don’t know how bad I am. I have been wish- 
ing for years that you might die; and you come to help 
me I ” 

“My dear fellow, when you do me any harm it will 


YESTERDAY. 


293 


be time to stand off.” The speaker's friendly face did 
not change; and Harry, expecting the hand he held to 
be withdrawn, felt his own pressed tighter. 

Here Corbin re-entered, with a shabby, forlorn com- 
panion, of blotchy skin and bloodshot eyes, showing 
in his air only the faintest traces of former jauntiness. 

“You don’t remember me, Harry,” faltered this 
individual. 

“Goring?” asked Sundon. 

“Yes. I haven’t got on, you see. I haven't any 
luck; that’s pulled me down.” He looked as if drink 
had used him worse still than fortune. “And so I got 
tired of the West, and when I could, I came back. 
You’re cursing your own luck for that, I know. But 
I lost my head. My head isn’t what it used to be. 
After all, our end of the wreck didn’t burn, and 
grounded and didn’t sink any farther; so there we sat 
safe till a tug picked us up. You’ll never forgive 
me.” 

‘ ‘ Bosh ! Why, I have forgiven you. What’s the use 
minding, now it’s over? Only keep cooler the next time, 
that’s all.” 

Goring shivered as if Harry’s words were an electric 
shock. 

“Good Lord! You let me off too easy, I that have 
murdered you ! ” 


294 


YESTERDA Y. 


Harry started up and then fell back, Felix supporting 
him. ‘‘I must be going to die, then!” he said. 

“Now you’ve done it twice over!” Corbin growled. 
“Get along with you ! Go to the devil !” 

“I thought Barbette had told,” Goring answered; 
“he told me: and that’s enough to send me to the 
devil already; I’m there now.” 

“Barbette and I thought there was a last chance, 
if we held our tongues,” Felix said. 

‘ ‘ And I’ve finished that too ! ” said Goring. 

“Come,” said Harry, recovering himself, “I’m not 
worth making such a time about; if it hadn’t been this 
v;ay, it would have been some other. I do forgive 
you. Goring; remember that, and never mind the rest.” 

“You shan’t say I’ve killed you to save my own 
life, anyway; I won’t outlast you long, I give you 
my word.” 

With that Goring hurried from the room. He kept 
his promise within three months; not by suicide, he had 
not nerve enough left for that; but through drink and 
self-neglect. At the last he w^as not friendless; for Bar- 
bette, encountering him by chance, took pity on him for 
the sake of Harry’s pardon. 

Harry lay quiet a good while after Goring was gone; 
at last he spoke to Felix. “Sooner, or later? Tell 


me true now. 


YESTERDA Y. 


295 


am afraid sooner.” 

“Hard, or easy?” 

“I hope easy.” 

“Don’t do anything to lengthen it out, if it’s a 
struggle. ” 

“I promise you.” 

“Yes; what’s the use of keeping me alive a trifle 
longer, just to suffer a few more minutes ? But I know 
you won’t. Now there are a few people I should like 
to see while my head’s clear.” 

“You’ve only to name them.” 

“Toinette Waveney first.” 

“Poor little soul!” said Corbin; “she’s been sitting 
crying on the stairs all day long.” 

He brought her in, dishevelled and red-eyed. “I 
look too horrid for you to see, now you’re sick,” she 
said, “but I couldn’t help it.” 

“Never mind,” said Harry; “I like my friends any 
way they come. Don’t you know that? You didn’t 
think I would get back so soon, did you ? ” 

“You must never go away any more.” 

“Oh yes, pussy, I must, and soon; but not without 
saying good-bye to my pet first.” 

“I wish I could kill the captain of the steamboat 
and the man that threw you in the water. I hate 
them ! ” 


296 


YESTERDAY. 


“It wouldn’t be any use. You can do a better thing 
for me than that, darling; just put down your dear little 
head and kiss me, so. There, all your people have been 
good to me, and you not the least of them. Now ask 
your papa to come here to me.” 

The child went out, choking down her sobs. 

“ Poor kitten ! ” said Harry. “I wish she might be 
through her troubles for the rest of her life with this. 
Now I must talk business with her father, good fellow. 
I’ve never laid up a cent, and with this wretched long 
vacation of mine I may be in debt; but if selling my 
old things won’t cover it, why, Belden, I depend on you 
to see he don’t make himself liable in any way.” 

He made his arrangements with Waveney very clearly; 
then they had a few words of friendly talk, though the 
younger man found it hard to be composed. 

“I should like to bid your wife good-bye,” Harry 
said; “she has been the best of sisters to me, and 
I thank her a thousand times; but I’m getting so 
tired and stupid, and there’s one other friend — one 
other.” 

“I know,” said Waveney. He and Corbin left the 
room together, and did not return. Grace entered in 
the next instant. Harry’s eyes looked “Stay!” to Felix; 
but the Doctor walked to the window. 

“Tony was right, Grace,” Harry began, “you are 


YESTE/iDAY. 


297 


one of the young people, you don’t fade. I’m giad to 
see that. As for me, my time’s over.” 

“Not yet, my friend,” she forced herself to say. 

“Ah, but I know it; don’t try to make me cheat 
myself. Of course it’s not easy for a man who has 
been used to darry his point and have his own way to 
find that there’s something in the world stronger than 
he, which won’t yield an inch for all he may struggle 
against it. But I have learned at last how to face what 
I must. You taught me that, if I had been willing to 
understand sooner.” 

‘ ‘ I would rather, so much rather, the lesson had 
not come from me.” 

‘ ‘ No one else could have given it; and I see it all now, 
though through my own obstinacy, it’s too late to be any 
good beyond helping me to die quietly. But no mat- 
ter. I’ve only been disinterested as an artist; I’ve lived 
for myself too much as a man; and if I went on, I 
might do no better.” 

“You have been so kind to so many people — the 
Corbins, Tony, myself — ” 

“Where it came easy, or I had no choice. Poor 
Thyra could have told another story once; you must 
know from your husband for how long and when, 
besides what came before.” 

“He never told me.” 


298 


YESTERDAY. 


k ■ 

“That’s more than I expected. You two have kept 
my secrets as I did not deserve. I thank you both. 
True, at the last I did what I could for her — no, I 
haven’t the right to say that even.^ She is gone, 
and I follow. My life has run in a circle since first I 
saw you; and the round finishes here, where it began. 
Do you remember, Grace, — I can ask you to remember 
that, — the day we met on the steps, and you showed 
me this house.?” 

“Yes, I shall not forget.” 

“ If I had been wiser then — but no, you had already 
made your choice; and if you had not, I was not good 
enough for you; I should have made you very unhappy, 
if we had married when Mont thought of it. You were 
right m despising me then.” 

“I have always been too hard on you; I have done 
you wrong.” 

“No, never! only justice to yourself. You deserved 
something better than I could give, and you have it. I 
can see you are a happy woman.” 

“Yes, thanks to you.” 

“Oh no. Belden would have taken care of that 
without me. But now everything is done, and I may 
go. I’m afraid I shall put Benson to some trouble at 
first; but Tony will fill up the blank before so very long. 
Otherwise I shan’t be missed.” 


YESTERDAY. 


299 


“But you will!” 

“Don’t take it so hard; if I thought any one — if I 
thought you couldn’t do without me, how could I die 
with good courage? But all my friends have some one 
nearer them than I; so I can make up my mind to 
the end. I get that poor consolation out of a selfish 
life.” 

“You blame yourself too much; what have you not 
done for your friends, for me? You brought me all 
my happiness.” 

“And you make me able to die in peace. Good-bye 
now; I feel drowsy and heavy, and when I wake I sup- 
pose the fight begins. If I should be conscious at the 
last, come again; but I don’t think I shall. I have 
seen you once more, and you end the world for me. 
Don’t stay; you could not help me, and you must not 
take my trouble on yourself. Good-bye.” 

She could not speak; she bent down and kissed his 
forehead, as she would her own child’s, had it been 
there suffering; then she left the room, turning at the 
door to bid a last farewell with her eyes. 

“Give me your hand again,” Harry said to Felix; 
and he fell asleep holding it as the twilight began. 

Barbette slid into the room with a shaded lamp. The 
two doctors watched anxiously; they knew there might 
be terrible hours coming; but their fears were not 


300 


YESTERDA Y. 


fulfilled. For some time all was still. Then Felix sud- 
denly felt the grasp on his hand tighten. Harry was 
awake, and made an effort to raise himself; but in a 
moment he sank back, the blood pouring from his 
mouth, dead. 






^ . 

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Despite the humorous character of the books, the truth of history is adhered to. 


RECENT LEISURE -HOUR VOLUMES. 

Id mo, $1,00 per volume^ 

DICK NETHERBY. 

By L. B. Walford, author of “Mr. Smith.” 

“ Mrs. Walford, who, as a woman of wealth, has a serene literary leisure, shows no 
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A LAODICEAN. 

By Thomas Hardy. With Illustrations by Du Maurier. 

j ” The fact that people find themselves discussing the novel is a proof that it has laid ; 

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undeniable.” — N, Y. World. I 

“ The charavter Ktud3' the great feature of the w'ork. * * Incidentally there is | 
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Du Maurier are very well done ^” — Boston Post. 

KITH AND KIN. 

i By Jessie Fothergill, author of “The First Violin.” 

I Among the multitude of novels which are every year being published in England, 

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ONE OF THRFE. 

i By Jessie Fothergill, author of “ The First Violin.” 

j “A story of earnest and faithful love, which will be interesting so long as love is the 

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MATRIMONY. 

A Novel. By W. E. Norris. 

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j has never been approached so nearly." — /Saturday Revieio. 

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THE LUTANISTE OF ST. JACOBI’S. 

A Tale. By Catherine Drew. 

A MATTER-OF-FACT GIRL. 

A Novel. By Theo. Gift. 


HENRY HOLT 4 CO., Publishers, New York, 


SOME EXPERIENCES OF A BARRISTER’S 

LIFE. 

By Mu. Serjeant Ballantine. Large 12mo. With portrait. $2.50 

TWENTY QUESTIONS. 

A short Treatise on the Game, to which are added, a Code of Rules 
and Specimen Games for the use of Beginners. By Hotspur. 
Square. lOmo. 90 cents. 

JOHN STUART MILL. 

A Criticism, with Personal Recollections. By Adexanoer Bain, 
LL.D., Emeritus Professor of Logic in the University of Aberdeen. 
12 mo. $ 1.00 

JAMES MILL. 

A Biography. By Alexander Bain, LL.D , Emeritus Professor of 
- Logic in the University of Aberdeen. 12mo. $2.00. 

GERMANY; PRESENT AND PAST. 

By S. Baring-Gould, M.A. 8vo. $3.00. 

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THE YOUNG FOLKS’ CYCLOPjEDIA OF PERSONS 
AND PLACES. By John D. Champlin, Jr. 8vo. Illus- 
trated. $3.50. 

‘‘A companion volume to his ‘Young Folk-s’ Cyclopaedia of Common Things.’ The 
two together form a miniature library of useful information, biography, travel, and 
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the American Cyclopaedia. Copiously Illustrated. Large i 2 mo, 
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HENRY HOLT & CO., Publishers, New York. 









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